


Resurrection Gardens

by cincoflex



Series: Candy Shop [4]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Creepy, F/M, Rolling Stones!, death is not the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: The Candy Shop investigates why certain dead people aren't dead.





	1. Chapter 1

THURSDAY

The woman in the coffin was lovely, Sugar Daddy thought. He knew he was biased; the opinion came from somewhere deep within him, and seemed to fit, even in this situation.

The viewing room was empty for the moment—empty of anyone but himself and the body. The lush décor hinted at refined taste, albeit impersonal for the most part; heavy dark blue drapes hung along the back wall behind the coffin, thick grey carpeting to muffle footsteps, plenty of cushiony tapestry armchairs along with a sofa or two and on every little table, tissues in discreet, elegant access.

Sugar Daddy gazed around once, and turned his melancholy attention back to the still form in the coffin, his focus on her pale, sweet features. Even in death, Miss Lollipop looked exotic, her long dark lashes against the curve of her high cheekbones, her mouth slightly pursed and highlighted in a subtle shade of rose lipstick. Against the ruffled white sateen lining of the coffin, she seemed like a gift doll, her glossy hair spread over the prop pillow, her curvy torso in a simple blue dress, her hands folded over her flat stomach.

“Ah, Mr. Morris . . . I’m sorry to intrude on your moment of reflection with your dearly departed,” came a smooth urbane voice. Sugar Daddy looked up to see the rounded figure of a man in a dark suit and tie stepping into the room, adjusting the carnation in his buttonhole. He was short, with wavy hair streaked with grey, and his cologne was nearly heavy enough to form a cloud around him.

“Mr. Pertonelli,” Sugar Daddy nodded, his guard up. The funeral director came forward, his gaze on the coffin. He gave a small, proud smile.

“She looks lovely, doesn’t she? It’s always a terrible tragedy to lose a loved one, but I daresay our cosmeticians here at Resurrection Gardens were honored to work with so _exquisite_ a customer. Rarely do we have the opportunity to showcase our work to this level.”

“Yeah, she looks . . . great,” Sugar Daddy grudgingly agreed, not willing to pander to the other man’s slightly creepy words. Mr. Pertonelli nodded, and after letting his gaze linger a moment longer on Miss Lollipop, he turned to Sugar Daddy and cleared his throat.

“I wanted to let you know that your late wife’s sister and brother are here, to share this hour of grief with you—they’re waiting in the foyer, and I would be happy to usher them here.”

Sugar Daddy nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been waiting for those two—bring them on in.”

Nodding, Mr. Pertonelli turned and left; Sugar Daddy took a swift moment to reach down into the coffin and brush a hand against Miss Lollipop’s cold cheek, feeling a wave of genuine despair at the chill there. For a moment his self-control wavered, but before he could do more than grip the edge of the coffin, the sound of the viewing room door opening once more alerted him.

Sugar Daddy looked over to see Miss Chocolate and Jelly Bean in somber clothing, looking pale-faced and still in the doorway.

“We just got here,” came her low and shaky voice. Sugar Daddy nodded tightly, and that seemed to break the moment of disbelief. Both she and Jelly Bean came forward; she into Sugar Daddy’s arms. He hugged her tightly, and she wrapped herself around him as well, pulling him close.

It was a good hug, with a degree of genuine warmth and for a moment, Sugar Daddy clung to her, taking a little comfort in it. Then he gently loosened his grip and looked into her face intently. Miss Chocolate’s gaze flicked to the ceiling, and the tiny camera mounted among the chandelier bulbs. Sugar Daddy nodded and gave a deep sigh.

“I didn’t think I’d see you two again . . . this way.”

 

Jelly Bean was staring towards the coffin, his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he swallowed hard. “Me either. She was . . . looking fine when I left.”

“Yeah, well these things can happen pretty fast,” Sugar Daddy looked bleak. Miss Chocolate patted his shoulder and stayed close.

“At least, it was quick,” she muttered, letting a helpless note echo in her voice. Sugar Daddy nodded, and moved to the coffin, letting his big hands rest on the open edge of it as he looked down on Miss Lollipop once more.

He sighed once more. “Swear to God, one minute she was fine, and the next . . . gone.”

“You should sit down,” Miss Chocolate urged gently. Jelly Bean had stepped closer with great reluctance and was looking into the coffin, his eyes wide and sorrowful.

“They gave her a pillow?”

“Sshhhh—” Miss Chocolate whispered, frowning.

Jelly Bean didn’t seem to hear her, and spoke again. “Why? It’s stupid, she’s not going to get up, she doesn’t need to be comfortable . . .” he choked. “I mean Jesus, she’s _dead_ ; dead people don’t need pillows!”

“Horace!” Miss Chocolate hissed very softly, reaching out to shake his thin shoulder. The contact seemed to help; the younger man crumpled a little, hanging his head. Miss Chocolate shifted to slide her arm around him, and he fought a shuddering sob very quietly.

“She’s beautiful. She always was,” Sugar Daddy murmured in a monotone. Miss Chocolate nodded, and for a while, the three of them went silent, standing near the coffin. Finally, Sugar Daddy shifted, moving to one of the sofas and dropping heavily on it. He waited until Miss Chocolate joined him there, then spoke in a low whisper when he handed her some tissue. “Who’s going to talk to Pertonelli?”

“I am,” Miss Chocolate replied as softly, dabbing her eyes. “After all, you were only her husband--I’m her kid sister. Makes more sense that _I’d_ know her dirty little secret, right?”

“Right, right,” Sugar Daddy murmured. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Ready to fight?”

Sugar Daddy nodded. Next to him, Miss Chocolate shot to her feet, glaring at him with reddened eyes.

“You son of a bitch! She’s not even COLD and you’re asking about MONEY! My God, Delores was _right_ about you after all these years!”

“Chloris?” Jelly Bean looked over at her, startled, “You okay?”

“Oh FINE, Horace, just FINE. You know what this bastard of a brother-in-law just asked? He wanted to know if the life insurance people had called yet!” Miss Chocolate rasped out in a low, vicious tone. She pulled away from Sugar Daddy’s outstretched hand and gritted her teeth.

Sugar Daddy rose to his feet, his expression bleak. “Chloris, I didn’t mean it that way . . . aw hell—!”

Miss Chocolate shot him a glare full of venom; a glance so intense that he actually stepped back. Jelly Bean wavered, then finally moved towards Miss Chocolate.

“Guys, don’t fight, okay? This is a terrible enough day without . . . this,” he pleaded thickly. Miss Chocolate blinked, and glanced over at the coffin.

“Damn right it is. First Delores kills herself and now this . . . this . . . bloodsucker wants to know if he’s getting any MONEY over it! I hope you rot in HELL, Boris!” With that, Miss Chocolate swept out of the viewing room, leaving behind a cold chill and silence. Weakly Sugar Daddy dropped to the sofa again, lowering his face into his hands.

Jelly Bean passed by him and walked out the door without a word.

 

*** 

THE PREVIOUS MONDAY

Grissom stared across the table at Miss Lollipop, feeling tightness in his gut. He fought to keep his expression neutral; a battle he wasn’t sure he was winning. “I’m sorry; what?”

“I said, for the good of the Shop, it’s time you went back to solo missions, Mr. Peppermint. I’m grateful that you were able to mentor Miss Chocolate after her relocation here in Las Vegas. She’s blossomed under your tutelage, but now it’s time to reconsider the gestalt of our groupings. You know as well as I do that for safety and security we recombine teams on a regular basis.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. I helped establish that policy,” Grissom pointed out, trying not to let any irritation show in his voice. Miss Lollipop nodded slightly, and stirred her tea, not looking at him now. Around them, the dull gray of early morning hung low in the air, with the smell of rain close.

“You did,” she acknowledged, “And that makes it all the more imperative that you model it for our newer recruits. We’re not a big organization, and our risks are high enough as it is. Therefore I think it would be wise to shuffle our ranks a bit at this time.”

Grissom bought time by sipping his Darjeeling. He didn’t risk glancing over the rim at Miss Lollipop, who was watching him carefully as he tried not to think of the hotel reservation in his pocket. When he set his cup down, she looked at him keenly.

“You’re needed in D.C. again to follow up on the unpleasantness with the Senator. I promised his daughter that someone highly skilled would look into the death of her husband, and that means you. Nobody is as good at slipping in and out of situations as you are, and you’ve got a head start on the mission already.”

“I’m due for time off,” he pointed out mildly. “Three missions in a row were YOUR established limit.”

Miss Lollipop’s small smile deepened, but her eyes were sharp. “Very true, but you ARE the lead on this, and I have an ulterior motive.”

Alert, Grissom stared at her. A soft click of toenails, and at that moment Grenadine trotted in, his silky fur ruffling over his small, muscled form. He paused, and then shifted direction, coming to sit next to Grissom’s shoe. Miss Lollipop sighed as Grissom leaned down to pet the dog.

Grenadine’s plume tail waved enthusiastically.

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” Miss Lollipop quoted, then smiled. “Or perhaps you can . . . providing the dog is willing to learn.”

Grissom shot a dry look at Miss Lollipop. Blandly, she set her cup down as he straightened up and prompted her, “Ulterior motive?”

“Oh yes. You’re going to work with Mrs. Willows herself. She’ll be crucial in getting you access to some of the places and people you’ll need to deal with.”

“She’s an amateur,” Grissom pointed out sharply. “And she’s personally involved.”

“She’s a client; she has a mentally unbalanced father who’s an accessory to at least one murder, Gil.” After a delicate pause Miss Lollipop added, “She has a _child_.”

Grissom fell silent, and Miss Lollipop took the moment to pick up the teapot and glance at him. He shook his head. Grenadine stretched out, his warmth seeping through the side of Grissom’s shoe.

After a long resigned moment, he sighed. “All right. When?”

“Your flight leaves in two hours,” Miss Lollipop informed him, handing over a paper pocket with a boarding pass and luggage labels in it. “You’ll rendezvous this evening with Mrs. Willows on the Potomac Princess—table reservations for the Tea Room are at five.”

Grissom stared at Miss Lollipop’s outstretched hand, his jaw working for a moment. When he finally could speak, his voice was tight. “Nothing left to chance, I see.”

“Chance favors the prepared,” she shot back.

“I thought that was luck.”

“Possibly—but you’ll need every advantage in any case. And once this whole business is behind, you can vacation to your heart’s content. Another jaunt to Costa Rica perhaps, or back to your beloved pyramids?” Miss Lollipop murmured. Grissom took the folder.

He kept his expression neutral.

Carefully, politely, neutral.

“A cup more before you go?” Miss Lollipop purred, holding out the china teapot.

*** 

Sara checked her watch again, feeling the small creep of doubt deep in her stomach. Mr. Peppermint was never late . . . at least not to this degree. She forced herself to keep still and not fidget as she sat on the upholstered bench of the lobby, suitcase at her feet.

“Miss Frango?” came a soft voice. Startled, Sara looked up into the bright eyes of the UPS delivery woman, who held out a package to her.

“Um, yes?”

“Package for you—sign here?” the delivery woman handed over an electronic clipboard and light pen. Numbly Sara took it, remembering in time to scrawl out ‘S. Frango’ instead of her real name. She took the proffered package, which was more of a padded envelope, and set it down on the seat beside her. The delivery woman strode off and out the lobby doors, and Sara waited until she’d left to pick up the package once again.

The neat printing was familiar, and the return address was the Book Hive. Curious, and worried, Sara rose up and made her way to the front desk. “Yes, I’d like a room for tonight please,” she murmured to the clerk.

Fifteen minutes later, Sara let herself into 1818 of the Sphere. She flicked on the light and tossed her coat on the chair up at the table. Carefully she sat cross-legged on the bed and looked at the padded envelope, studying the outside intently. Mailed in Vegas, top dollar for same day delivery . . .

Unnerved now, she carefully opened it, using the blade of the tiny Swiss Army knife on her keychain to slice the top of the package.

Sara glanced into it, and her confusion deepened. Carefully she tipped the contents out onto the bedspread and smoothed them out, looking at the collection of items.

Candy.

Three pieces glued together—a chocolate kiss on one side of a sucker, with a round disk mint on the other side. Sara picked it up and looked at it carefully, then let comprehension sink in. Easy enough to interpret. That explained why he wasn’t here.

Sara sighed. She’d known that Candy Shop policy discouraged any regular or personal contact between agents outside of shop missions. It made sense to a certain degree: Agents needed their own lives, and over familiarity could easily lead to emotionality that in turn could lead to mistakes and poor judgment.

But they’d been careful. They’d been patient and careful, and damn it, it just didn’t seem fair that now that the two of them were about to . . . scratch some serious itches, that THIS--

 

Sara looked at the rest of the items on the bedspread. A tiny plastic yacht with a googly eye glued to it; a miniature book with a googly eye on it; assorted candies with black Xs on them and a glossy picture postcard of the Lincoln Memorial with a crossed out phone number and an Internet address on the message side of it. Sara laid all of the items out in a line on the bedspread and concentrated.

_Miss Lollipop is keeping us apart/Your place and my place are being watched/Don’t trust Gum Drop, Jelly Bean, Jaw Breaker or Licorice/I’m in DC/Don’t call; go online._

A sense of relief flooded Sara; a giddy sense of delight along with alarm at the decoded warnings. She blinked a little, feeling a prickle of tears. On impulse, she looked into the padded envelope again, and one more item slid out, dropping into her lap.

Sara picked it up and her smile twisted as her glance lingered over the Kiss of Mint condom with the big red heart and exclamation point emphatically drawn on the wrapper.

No interpretation needed for that—she laughed aloud, staring at it for a long, loving moment.

Carefully she swept all the items back into the padded envelope; all of them except the postcard. A quick phone call to room service, and within half an hour she had a laptop hooked up, and a veggie platter waiting.

Sara typed in the address:

http://www.quia.com/pages/chocolatemint.html

She read the note swiftly and smiled, relieved for the moment; touched and frustrated in equal measure by Mr. Peppermint’s cleverness. Clearly he’d had time to read all those spy novels in his shop, and incorporate some of their devices—a fact Sara definitely appreciated now.

Sara thought hard. If the Candy Shop was keeping the two of them under watch, then it would be wise to limit her time on anything that could be tapped or traced; and certainly, it would be smart to make sure any use would be considered innocuous. Quickly she began moving from site to site, choosing places that reflected her own interests: a boat repair forum; a handbag sale at her favorite store in Paris; a site dedicated to the preservation of the wetlands of the Bay area. After spending nearly half an hour online, she shut down the laptop.

Her cell phone rang; cautiously Sara flipped it open after recognizing the number. Immediately the happy sound of Jelly Bean’s voice filled her ear. “Hey Sara, I just got back and I’m standing on your dock, but you’re not home—what’s up?”

“Hey Greg—The Bohemian’s heater’s on the fritz, so I booked myself a room in town for tonight. The repair guys are supposed to come between eight and four tomorrow, but I didn’t want to freeze waiting for them.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Jelly Bean agreed. “Yeah, I heard it can get cold on the water, especially at night. You coming in tomorrow? Because I have a whole BAG of goodies to share from my fun times around the Hartford of the West. Hope you like corn.”

*** 

As he spoke, Greg stripped the wires in his hands and twisted the ends, capping them together carefully. He kept the cell phone clamped between his ear and shoulder, but only half of his conversation was there; the rest was scanning the dark docks of Grace Marina. No one seemed to be around, and only the light came from the pier gate mounting and a lamp on at the Dock master’s house further up on the hill.

The voice in his ear spoke again, laughing. “You brought me corn?”

“I signed up for the corn of the month club,” Greg told her solemnly as he wrapped electrician’s tape around the splice he’d made in the camera feed. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Right.”

“Hey, don’t come running to me when you’re a few ears short on your next barbecue--And speaking of barbecues, I tried grilling two certain compadres about that last project the three of you did, but they clammed up tight. What do you HAVE on them?”

Miss Chocolate’s husky laugh echoed in his ear, and the sound of it sent a hot pang of desire and guilt through Greg. “Not so much what I have on them, as _off_ them?”

“Oh HO, this is a story I have to hear. Coming in tomorrow?”

“Yep, bright and early—see you there?”

“With bright eyes and bushy tail,” Jelly Bean promised, and hung up after exchanging goodbyes. He folded the phone and tucked it in his jacket pocket, then looked again at the splice in the wire, priding himself on a professional job.

Jelly Bean reached up and tilted the camera, adjusting the angle. He reached in the other pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tiny remote. With a click of the power button, the tiny light under the lens flared, and the camera began to make a slow sweep, moving on its axis. For a moment the young agent watched it, and then looked guiltily around the yacht at anchor.

He sighed, and climbed back onto the wharf, pulling his baseball cap down more tightly, and let the light reflect off the Pizza and Pipes delivery jacket he wore. Once Jelly Bean was out past the range of the camera, he pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed dial number.

“It’s up, good job. I SAW you a moment ago, dude,” came Bubble Gum’s chatty tone. “Anyone spot you?”

Jelly Bean felt a knot of self-loathing in the pit of his stomach. “No. She wasn’t there, and I don’t think anyone else was at home up on the hill, either.”

“That’s good. We’ll catch them later anyway—daylight’s better for this sort of thing. Done for the night?”

Jelly Bean sighed heavily. “Yeah. I’m finished here.”


	2. Chapter 2

_For the purposes of clarity, Good Readers, I'd like to point out that the timeline of this story opened with a dramatic scene happening on Thursday. The rest of this story is in correct chronological order, so I hope that clears up how we had a jump BACK from Thursday to Monday. Just a dramatic effect, didn't mean to confuse anyone. Thanks--Cinco_

 

MONDAY NIGHT

 

Grissom leaned on the rail around the lower deck of the Potomac Princess and toyed with the gold band on his finger. The evening was clear, but there was a noticeable breeze coming off the water here at the landing near 13th Street, and after sunset, it would be downright chilly. He glanced around the other passengers of the paddle-wheel boat, wondering how many of them were checked into the various staterooms available onboard.

 

For a brief moment Grissom indulged in the thought of having Miss Chocolate waiting for him on one of the snug berth beds, perhaps in black stockings and a mood of smoldering impatience; at that luscious image, a spasm of lust flashed through his entire frame and he gripped the rail tightly.

 

He allowed himself a few seconds of serious hatred for Miss Lollipop.

 

Then guilt and common sense returned, and Grissom sighed, looking out across the ruffled water. It didn’t do to hold grudges, especially when point of fact the woman was right. Candy Shop policy was emphatic on the issues of non-fraternization, for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which were compromise, inefficiency and distraction.

 

And yet--a nagging voice at the back of Grissom’s mind pointed out that all three of his missions so far with Miss Chocolate had been successful, with net gains of over a million dollars in private fees, hotline payouts and confiscated goods. Further, all three of Chip Harrington’s ex-wives had covertly donated vehicles to the Shop, and word was that Macy MacDonald had liked the early rushes of the porn musical _so_ much that she was finishing it with part of her own money.

 

They even had a mascot now, Grissom realized, although the credit for that probably lay with Gum Drop’s inability to return the dog to his mother.

 

Yes, all in all, business AND profit had picked up since he’d teamed with Miss Chocolate, and despite what Shop policy stated, the bottom line for the partnership clearly came out in the black.

 

And THAT was a fact with which even Miss Lollipop couldn’t argue.

 

Amused, Grissom idly wondered if he could get an accountant to draft a counterproposal to Shop policy, and as he pondered that he spotted Mrs. Willows striding onto the paddle wheeler, nervously clutching her purse. She looked sleek in her dark sunglasses and tailored cream suit, and at the same time, her body language broadcast her unease as clearly as a billboard. Grissom sighed and pushed himself away from the railing and thoughts of chocolate.

 

Showtime.

 

He picked up his briefcase and made a show of checking his watch. Slowly Grissom made his way along the promenade, moving around the people milling and admiring the scenery along the Potomac. The Tea Room was already filling up, and the maitre’d glided back and forth, directing waitresses and diners to various seats. When it was Grissom’s turn, he managed a blink at the other man.

 

“I have an appointment with Mrs. Willows,” he announced in a distracted voice as he pushed up his thick, black framed glasses. The maitre’d looked at him, and Grissom pretended to search the room, pointing with his chin to where she sat. “There.”

 

“Ah. If the gentleman will follow me then,” came the request. Grissom did, toting along his briefcase and arriving at the table in time to catch Mrs. Willow’s cautious gaze. He held out his hand to her and gave hers a firm shake.

 

“Mrs. Willows? I’m Charles Bucket.”

 

He sat opposite her at the tiny table and the maitre’d moved off. Mrs. Willows stared at him, her mouth twitching a little. “Pleased to meet you, Chuck. How are things at the factory?” came her amused question.

 

“Actually, I’m associated with the shop,” Grissom countered smoothly, watching her expression shift from potential laughter to wariness again. She eyed him more closely now as he set his briefcase down and adjusted his cuffs, touching the little gold button links.

 

“I’ve seen you before,” she announced. “I _know_ I have, I just can’t put my finger on it.”

 

“You’ve seen me twice before, about six weeks ago,” Grissom agreed in a low, pleasant voice. “I fumigated the Senator’s townhouse, and later that evening, I attended your dinner party.”

 

The light of recognition flared in her eyes and her mouth opened slightly. “Oh geez—the nerdy professor with the pregnant trophy wife!”

 

Looking slightly pained and pleased, Grissom gave a tiny nod. He turned as a waiter approached them. “I’m deferring to Mrs. Willow’s preferences here . . .”

 

The waiter turned to look at her; unfazed, Catherine gathered up the menus. “We’ll have coffee—that Sumatran blend, with sides of cream and sugar thanks, and carrot cake petit fours,” she ordered smoothly. The waiter nodded, scribbling on his pad, then moved off. When he’d left, Grissom bent and fished in his briefcase, pulling out a manila file, handing it to Catherine.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“Camouflage. If anyone spots you and asks later what you were doing here, you’ve been consulting a lawyer about a property line dispute with your mother’s house in Nevada,” he countered. She shot him a brief look of admiration, taking the file and opening it.

 

“Smooth. I guess Heather wasn’t kidding when she said she had connections.”

 

“Doctor Marazek is exceptionally good at management,” Grissom agreed with a twinge of annoyance. Catherine pretended to examine the file for a few seconds, and then spoke under her breath.

 

“Okay, so who ARE you? And what exactly is the big plan here, because if you know anything at all about my situation, you probably also know we don’t have a lot of time or security.”

 

“I’m one of the people who does what needs to be done,” Grissom told her simply. “As the nursery rhyme goes: ‘For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none.”

 

“If there be one, seek till you find it,” Catherine picked up the thread, “If there be none then never mind it. Cute . . . but not very helpful.”

 

Grissom sighed. “Fine. I’m a private agent. Right now, my job is to pick up whatever information I can about your father and get it back for evaluation and processing. My understanding was that you were going to assist me with this.”

 

For a moment Catherine didn’t speak, but Grissom realized it was simply because the waiter had returned with their order. Once the coffee was set before each of them, she drew in a breath.

 

“Yes, I’ll help. What do you need?”

 

“Access,” Grissom told her quietly. “Passwords, keys, phone numbers, connections, even the most fleeting or innocuous. I’d like to get into his professional office, his private office, his home office and his car. I want as much of his financial information as you can lay hands on, along with anything else you think is pertinent.”

 

She was nodding, her hands moving to pour the cream into her cup even as she listened to him. “All right, that I can do. Got a name, secret agent man?”

 

“Grissom.”

 

“Like the astronaut,” came her little probe. He nodded, sipping his own coffee.

 

“No relation, actually. So as you can see, I think your mother has a solid case here . . . clearly the Hendersons are encroaching on that western side, and the assessor’s measurements will bear that out,” he finished while the waiter set down the petit fours. Blinking at the sudden change of conversation, Catherine nodded belatedly.

 

“Er, yeah.”

 

When they were alone again, Grissom carefully slipped her a business card that read _Charles Bucket, C.S, Associates_ followed by a phone and fax number. “You can get in touch with me here at any time. I suggest we find somewhere less public next time. For the moment, what can you tell me about your father’s normal routine?”

 

Catherine sighed. “A lot. You might need a—”

 

But Grissom already had a notepad out, and was clicking the pen, poised to write even as he pushed his heavy glasses up along his nose with the other hand. Catherine arched an eyebrow at him. “—piece of paper,” she finished. “Are you always so prepared?”

 

Grissom held her gaze for a second, and his voice was low. “I’m going up against Senator Braun . . . I’d rather be ready than dead, Mrs. Willows.”

 

Grimly, Catherine nodded.

 

*** 

 

TUESDAY MORNING

 

Sara looked over at Sugar Daddy, who had an expression on his face that probably mirrored hers. They both looked at Miss Lollipop and waited for more. She nodded.

 

“I’m going to die tonight, yes, but it won’t be fatal. At least, not this time. What I need are a few mourners and family for the funeral on Thursday, with at least one of you snooping around a bit to help make it realistic.”

 

“I’m not sure I’m too crazy about the realistic part,” Sugar Daddy muttered, eyeing her carefully. The three of them were strolling through the Candy Shop down under the Truman Tower building, heading for a conference room. Miss Lollipop sighed, ushering them inside. She closed the glass doors, picked up a remote from the polished mahogany table, and punched a button; instantly a projected image flashed up on a blank wall.

 

The man in the candid photo sat in a restaurant booth, concentrating on a stack of waffles. Miss Lollipop spoke up. “Lyle Tarkov. He looks rather good for a man who died two years ago. And this—” she pushed another button on the remote, “—is Theresa Cornejo, ecdysiast by trade, who passed away eight months ago. Both of them resurfaced recently.” The woman on the screen was sunning herself next to a sparkling hotel pool.

 

“They look good, for the walking dead,” Sara agreed cautiously. “What happened?”

 

“In the beginning, Lyle had a little problem with owing money to Bruce Eiger. Quite a LOT of money apparently, but Bruce never had a chance to collect it because Lyle died of a heart attack and was buried out at Resurrection Gardens. Theresa Cornejo was on the potential witness list in the Mastrianno trial. She died before prosecutors could convince her to testify against Max Mastrianno, and she too, was buried at Resurrection Gardens.”

 

“I’m sensing a pattern here,” Sugar Daddy nodded. “An escape clause?”

 

Miss Lollipop smiled in her mysterious way. “So it seems. Whoever is running this private relocation program has access to several databases, since Lyle is no longer in CODIS or AIFIS or the Social Security system—at least, not the official databases.”

 

“That’s . . . scary,” Sara murmured, blinking a little. Sugar Daddy looked at her and smiled.

 

“That people are coming back from the dead?”

 

“That we have our own, more secure databases than the FBI,” Sara corrected him with a quick grin back. “But the reanimation is spooky too.”

 

“It’s troubling, to say the least. Tarkov was spotted by an old associate, Mr. X, who’d attended the funeral. When he confronted Tarkov, Mr. X was told he’d made a mistake. Fortunately, being a suspicious sort he managed these photos and a DNA sample from a stolen fork which he brought to us.”

 

“Thus confirming that Tarkov was back,” Sugar Daddy nodded. “And?”

 

Miss Lollipop looked perturbed as she paced under the projected image of Theresa Cornejo. “And Mr. X has disappeared.”

 

Sara frowned. “Definitely not good.”

 

“Definitely. Later in the month we received notice about the return of Ms. Cornejo when she applied for a job at the Wiggle Room; our agent there sent her prints through our database for the routine background check and the results were flagged.”

 

“The . . . Wiggle Room?” Sara asked dryly.

 

Miss Lollipop nodded. “One of our more profitable legitimate businesses. This IS Las Vegas, Miss Chocolate; when in Rome . . ."

“Yes, well getting back to the matter at hand,” Sugar Daddy interjected smoothly, “We’ve got two people back from the dead . . . why worry about it?”

 

Miss Lollipop paced, her back very straight, the sway of her skirt almost a flounce. Almost. “Because both of the people who supposedly died were associated with unscrupulous people, and both had access to money or information. It’s only a matter of time before this potentially profitable operation taken over by a bigger organization, and I for one do not want the Mafia or the Cartels or the Triad to gain any more power in Las Vegas. Too many deaths would alert the authorities and eventually compromise the various databases throughout the federal government.” 

 

No one spoke for a moment; the Sugar Daddy leaned back in his chair and sighed. “And you have no . . . interest in maybe taking over this enterprise yourself?” he asked lightly. Miss Lollipop turned her dangerous gaze on him, and for a moment Sara felt the undeniable flare of heat between the two.

 

Startled, she blinked at this sudden insight.

 

Miss Lollipop folded her arms across her chest. “The thought DID occur to me, yes. I won’t deny that being able to use it for beneficial purposes greatly appeals to me. We could help abuse victims begin new lives, give certain people a second chance—but ultimately it’s simply too dangerous. Once the operation at Resurrection Gardens is shut down, perhaps we here at the Shop can consider a similar, smaller program in the future.”

 

“Okay then,” Sara interjected. “So how exactly did you get information on this place?”

 

“I spoke at length with Ms. Cornejo, who is currently enjoying a luxurious house arrest. The details are here—” Miss Lollipop handed each of them a flash drive, “—Study them today, please. Ms. Cornejo tells me that she’d been ordered NOT to return to Las Vegas, but apparently the wages for a skin artist are better here than in Atlantic City.”

 

“Warmer too,” Sugar Daddy murmured. “So let’s get back to your death. You’ve already made arrangements?”

 

Miss Lollipop nodded. “Under the guise of Delores Morris, financial manager for Granger Investments, I’ve met with Mr. Pertonelli, the funeral director of Resurrection Gardens, and given him the appropriate password. He’s heard at length about my embezzlement activities and my need to prudently vanish before my boss takes legal action.”

 

“And you want me to be your boss?” Sugar Daddy smirked. Miss Lollipop shook her head.

 

“I need you to be my husband. And I need you, Miss Chocolate, to be my sister. That would give both of you a reason to visit Resurrection Garden. I believe my viewing is going to be on Thursday, since I’ve conveniently written out all my funeral arrangements and left them on file. I plan to commit suicide by insulin overdose—Mr. Pertonelli assures me that will mean a minimal investigation and no autopsy—and them I’ll be laid out for viewing, and later taken away for cremation.”

 

Sugar Daddy winced, his big hands coming up to rest on the table. He looked at the two women, his gaze coming back to linger on Miss Lollipop. “I gotta tell you Heather, I don’t like it, not one damned bit. There’s a hell of a lot of _risk_ you’re taking with this one.”

 

“I understand your concern Jim, but I won’t ask anyone else to die on the job.” She managed a brief, beautiful smile. “That’s my privilege.”

 

Sara nodded, and no one spoke again for a long moment. Then Miss Lollipop gave a little sigh of dismissal.

As the three of them left the conference room, Miss Lollipop spoke softly to Sara, “A moment, please?”

 

Sensing what was coming, Sara obediently followed Miss Lollipop back in and looked at her as they stood together inside the door. The other woman kept her gaze level.

 

“I simply wanted to say that you’ve done an exceptional job with your last three missions, and should be on vacation by now. I appreciate your willingness to participate in this one with me.”

 

“That’s okay,” Sara replied gently. “You made a good point about needing to shut down that pipeline.”

 

“Yes,” Miss Lollipop nodded. “We need to move quickly on this one. I also wanted to let you know also that from now on you’ll be working with Jelly Bean instead of Mr. Peppermint.”

 

Sara frowned. “May I ask why?”

 

“Shop security policy,” Miss Lollipop replied blithely. “Very routine. So after we’re done with Resurrection Gardens I’d like you to take a vacation. Henry is our in-house travel agent, and he’d be happy to book you on a trip anywhere you’d like to go.”

 

“Um, wow. Thanks,” Sara managed, a little startled at this largess. Miss Lollipop smiled and moved past her.

 

“You’ve more than earned it, Sara. I hear there are some fabulous sales in Paris this time of year.”

 

Sara waited for a moment, a smile frozen on her face, and fought her tiny shiver.

 

*** 

 

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

 

Senator Sam Braun looked at the woman standing in the living room and shook his head in disappointment. “Damn it Sofia, I ask you to do this ONE thing; a very simple thing and you screw up.”

 

“I’m telling you Sam, she’s got help. I’ve been keeping an eye on your daughter off and on for nearly three years now, and this is the _first_ time she’s ever given me the slip,” Sofia Curtis grumbled. Sam Braun blinked at her and picked up his glass of scotch once more.

 

“She’s a little skittish right now,” Sam agreed, frowning. “I think it might be time to see if we can get her back to her old ways. We do that, and I can put her in private rehab with the full sympathy of the voters.”

 

“Not coke,” Sofia warned, pacing a bit. “Pain relievers maybe. The demographics are kinder to prescription addiction.”

 

Sam nodded. “Good thinking. So we get her going on Oxycontin or Vicodin and let her run a while. A non-fatal traffic accident maybe and I can have a nice little statement to the press about needing some privacy to deal with this personal tragedy. We could put a decent spin on it by election time.”

 

Sofia nodded. “Do-able, certainly. It might be nice if you spent some PR time on drug rehab prior to it all. My people tracked her on American Airlines through JFK, but she hasn’t shown up at the townhouse yet. Think she might have checked into the Four Seasons?”

 

The senator nodded. “Most likely. She’s avoiding me, and that gives me a bad feeling.”

 

The blonde woman nodded slowly. “She’s not stupid, Sam. The question I have to ask is—have you been behaving yourself?”

 

Sam scowled. “That is a dangerous question, Ms. Curtis.”

 

She held his gaze. “And that’s the answer I was afraid of. Let’s not kid ourselves, Senator; I’m not paid to like you or your vices, I’m here to make sure you stay in office. So I ask again: have you been behaving yourself?”

 

The smile crossing Sam Braun’s face was mild and grandfatherly; nevertheless, seeing it, Sofia felt her skin crawl.

 

“Now Sofia . . . a man has to have a vice or two, don’t you know? Besides, they’ll never connect me to any of it . . . I’ve been promised that.”

 

“Sam—” Sofia muttered, her eyes narrowing. The Senator lifted his glass to her in a mock toast. 

 

“All taken care of, honey. Now, don’t you have a flight to catch? I hear my daughter’s in pain and needs some decent medicine.”


	3. Chapter 3

TUESDAY NIGHT

 

Sara stretched out on her berth and shifted the laptop more comfortably across her thighs. The sway of the water lulled her, as it always did, and she read through the file on the flash drive for the third time, taking mental notes as she waited impatiently for . . . something.

 

It came. She heard an unfamiliar voice calling “Hel-lo? Is there a Miz Sidle on board?”

 

Sara scrambled, setting the laptop out of the way. She clambered up the ladder to the deck after checking the security camera, and stared at the figure standing on the dock in the halo light of lamps. “Um . . . you’re a chicken.”

 

“I’m not _just_ a chicken, I’m Louise, the Singing Telegram Chicken of Happy Cluck Messengers!” the hefty African-American woman squeaked back proudly. She was indeed a chicken, covered in a fat gold-feather suit complete with beak, wattle and wings. Her shapely legs were encased in orange tights and the latex feet had three toes and claws. Sara bit her lips to keep from laughing.

 

“Louise. A telegram chicken.”

 

“Cluck yes, baby, and I have a very special message for you from King Leo . . . are you ready, girl?”

 

On the verge of losing it altogether, Sara nodded, wrapping an arm around her own waist. Louise cleared her throat and began to chicken dance as she sang the tune for Camptown Races. “Oooooohhhh--You know the code for where I’ll be, doo dah, doo dah, onto that you add a three, oh doo dah day—”

 

She launched into the second verse happily. “Forty-two works out just fine, doo dah, doo dah, if you need to find my line, ohh doo dah day. Then a double eightttt and a sixty-threeeee, that’s all that you need to know, now you can find meeeeeee!”

 

With a flourish, Louise spun and squawked, throwing her wings out in a big dramatic finish, and nearly falling over her own rubber feet.

 

Sara reached out to grip the mast, shoulders shaking hard. She tried not to laugh, but good-naturedly, the chicken woman chuckled, “Oh go on honey, you KNOW you want to; it’s okay!”

 

That was when Sara lost it, her squeaky bray echoing out over the water, mingling with Louise’s deep rumble. Eventually, Sara made her way onto the pier with rubbery legs, her breathing a wheeze now as giggles sporadically bubbled up out of her. She blinked her wet eyes and grinned at Louise, shaking her head with a little disbelief, “OhhhhmyGod, you have no idea how much I, ah, I needed that.”

 

“Oh I know, I know—believe or not there’s a lot of satisfaction in this job,” Louise nodded, preening a little. “Of course I have NO idea what the hell your message means, but at least you _got_ it, right?” 

Sara nodded, fishing in her slacks pocket for the spare twenty she kept behind her compact mirror. “It’s a personal joke . . . here—” she tipped the woman. Louise took the twenty graciously, her smile full and sunny. She handed Sara a printout (pulled from somewhere deep in the suit) and nodded. 

“Yeah, I get a lot of those too. Anyway, you have a good night. Oh and if you _ever_ need to send a message by singing chicken, you think of me _first_ , you hear?” 

“Louise,” Sara promised sincerely, her dimples grin flashing out again, “Believe me, you’ll be the _only_ singing chicken on my rolodex, I promise.” 

“Good to hear, honey! Night now!” Louise turned and made her way back up the dock, feathers ruffling as she did so. Sara watched her go, blinking and feeling unexpectedly warm. She turned back to the hatch and climbed down again, bolting it shut behind her, and then smoothed the paper out. 

The phone number was simple enough to figure out, and within a minute she dialed it, hearing the distant ring as she clutched her own disposable cell. 

“Frango,” came the sound of Mr. Peppermint’s voice, low and familiar; the very sound of it made her chest tighten, and Sara took a quick breath. 

“King Leo. Nice delivery service.” 

“Thought you’d appreciate the camouflage.” 

“Camouflage?” she asked, walking back to her berth and settling in on the bed. 

Mr. Peppermint laughed softly. “Consider this—would you ever think that a singing chicken telegram would be my style?” 

“No,” Sara responded promptly. Mr. Peppermint’s little affirmative sound echoed in her ear. 

“Exactly. Therefore, I used it.” 

“Clever man.” 

“I have my moments.” Mr. Peppermint admitted modestly. He leaned back in the hot water, resting his arms along the sides of the tub and relaxed a bit. The heavy crystal ashtray rested near his fingertips, and sitting on the rim was a Montserrat Chocolate Velvet cigar. The smoke drifted upward in elegant curls. 

“Where are you?” Sara asked, feeling a little lonely and shy. 

“Let me tell you where I’d _rather_ be,” came his slow reply. “All of them start with you.” 

“Wow, okay that’s a pretty romantic line,” Sara murmured, pleased and a little breathless. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sway of the water for a second. “Not that you need to stop or anything.” 

“Not about to. Miss L spoke to you?” 

“She reminded me about Shop policy, yeah. Can’t say I’m too thrilled with it,” Sara sighed. “I thought we were building a pretty good rapport there, professionally.” 

“Mmmm hmmm,” Mr. Peppermint agreed, picking up the cigar and drawing on it deeply. “A synergy rooted in our personal affinity and mutual attraction.” 

“Which is probably why she wants to nip it in the bud,” Sara pointed out with a sigh. “Horniness is not a workplace adjective.” 

“You’re redefining my manual,” Mr. Peppermint countered, exhaling. The husky laugh in his ear echoed in the receiver. 

“That sounds totally dirty.” 

“I mastered corporate-lingus years ago. And in this case, I don’t think the rationale for the Candy Shop policy holds true. Beyond wanting to have you in every possible personal permutation permitted, Sara, I trust you, which is both a comfort and a surprise to me,” he paused, adding, “I haven’t trusted anyone in a very long time.” 

“Oh,” Sara managed as the lovely heat deep in her chest fluttered. “Thank you.” She shifted the phone to her other ear and cleared her throat. “Do I hear water?” 

“I’m in the tub.” 

A sultry pause circled the conversation. 

“Okay, I’m not sure how much more of this I can _take_ . . .” Sara growled through a laugh. “Singing chickens, romantic declarations and now you’re telling me you’re naked on the other end of the line.” 

__

“I like baths,” Mr. Peppermint replied, and she heard the smile in his voice. “I’m having a cigar as well.” 

__

“You smoke?” 

“No.” 

“Oh,” Sara puzzled, then sighed, “More camouflage?” 

“Partially. Psychologically I’m sure Miss L. would accuse me of using it as a substitute, but it’s not a bad balm for certain . . . tensions.” 

“Yeah, well it’s a hell of an image, babe.” She could picture him so easily, reclining in steaming water, the humidity making his hair curl damply at his temples, his expression somewhere between cherub and satyr. 

“One you may eventually see in person . . . minus the cigar,” Mr. Peppermint replied. “Are you working?” 

“Yep. I have to pick out a somber black suit for a funeral on Thursday. My sister.” 

__

“Ah. My condolences. I hope you wear something with a veil. I think you’d look very sultry in a little bit of black netting.” 

__

“Short skirt, fitted jacket, black sheer hose, sunglasses. I’ll think about netting.” 

__

“Oh I will too,” Mr. Peppermint assured her sincerely. “Believe me.” 

__

“So what are YOU doing, besides sitting in hot water without me?” Sara asked silkily, sliding her shoes off and letting them drop off the end of the berth to the deck. 

__

“Considering the best course of action to topple a government figure, but that’s minor. We’ve got about six minutes before anyone monitoring the Bohemian calls to check in on you, so I’d rather spend it plotting. Where do you want to run away with me?” 

__

“Someplace . . . safe. Just you and me; no Shop, no sweets or false faces, Gil,” came her hoarse little sigh. “Man, woman, maybe a blanket or two . . .”

__

“Tis consummation devoutly to be wished,” he agreed. “Maybe we should use the strategy of a fox and see how many trails we leave.” 

__

“Good idea. I have at least three destinations I can push.” Sara paused and added in a sultry tone, “I already bought condoms.” 

__

Mr. Peppermint gave a little grunt of frustration. “Don’t tell me things like that—a cigar, even a chocolate cured one can only go SO far.” 

__

“I’ll suit you up myself,” she persisted, wicked delight in her voice. “Slick and slow . . .” 

__

“More.”<

__

“Where the hands go, can it be too long before the lips follow?” she reminded him with a throaty chuckle. 

__

On the other end of the line, Mr. Peppermint growled. “This is a hell of a way to take my transcontinental calling plan virginity . . .” 

__

“Suffer,” Sara moaned cheerfully, sliding her free palm under the waistband of her slacks, “Because with the mood I’m in, it’s going to be ladies first.” 

__

There was a quick puff of breath and a soft demand, “Details, sweetheart—”<

__

“Fine—you’re not the only one who can appreciate something wrapped tightly and full of flavor,” she chuffed back, pinning the cell phone between her ear and shoulder. The lazy flick of her fingers between her legs had Sara quivering; already her body was responding eagerly to her touch in tandem with Mr. Peppermint’s honeyed words. 

__

“All of you . . . “ he gritted out, “I want all of you to myself . . . to open your thighs and mount you properly, dear . . .” 

__

“Jeeesussss--“ Sara gulped, unable to suppress a pang of lust so strong it made her stomach shiver. She gave a happy groan and stroked her taut little pearl, circling it with a fingertip. Mr. Peppermint’s breathing deepened in the phone line. 

__

“And I won’t . . . can’t . . . . be satisfied . . . until I taste of you and smell of you . . .” he confessed. Sara tensed, her pretty toes curling. She slid another finger along her throbbing cleft, focusing on the urgent pleasure between her legs, and the husky seduction of Mr. Peppermint’s voice. “Under me, delicious and hot, mine for the having . . .” 

__

“IWANTyou—“ she cried softly, closing her eyes helplessly. His low utterly masculine groan echoed in Sara’s ear as the weightless waves of heat and chill flared through her, radiating out from under her fingers and throughout her entire lanky frame. 

__

She arched and slumped back against the mattress, breathing deeply, a flush of yearning mingling with embarrassment and amusement. “Ohhhhhh . . . . um, yeahhhhh, that was . . .” 

__

His answering sigh, deep and pleased, left her smiling. “ . . . Beautiful. And . . . er, messy. Among other things, you’ve made me drop a two hundred dollar cigar into the tub, thanks to your incredibly sexy whimpering.” 

__

Sara slowly slid her hand out of her panties, rubbing the slickness along her stomach, pleased and shy; somehow lonelier than ever. “I miss you.” 

__

“I love you,” Mr. Peppermint replied quietly. “Now hang up and call Greg; ask him if he sent you a telegram chicken. I love you. Then it will be your turn; I’m at the Patriot Lodge and I don’t plan to be out here more than three days. I love you. At the moment I have to take a shower and go to work.” 

__

“Go to work,” Sara agreed. “Cancun, Paris, Hawaii. We won’t go to any of them this time. And what you said? Me too.” 

__

Before he could reply Sara closed the cell phone and took a deep breath. Then she rolled over and reached for the phone on the nightstand and dialed a number as she tucked the disposable under her pillow. 

A voice answered. “Very funny Greg—you DID send the chicken, didn’t you?” she began, forcing her voice to be light and careless. 

__

__*** *** ***_ _

__

Miss Lollipop smoothed down the filmy nightgown, and reached for the peignoir, sliding into it gracefully. The muted lilac color flattered her dark hair, and she checked herself in the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom. 

__

Sugar Daddy was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, a newspaper in his hands. He looked up at her, his gaze dark and deep. 

__

“For the record, this entire plan sucks. Except _this_ part,” he amended, watching her approach the bed. Miss Lollipop flashed a smile at him and sat down on the edge of the mattress, leaning over towards him. 

__

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in the field, but I’m still qualified,” she murmured, looking at his pajamas. They were burgundy plaid flannel, and Miss Lollipop wondered if they were as soft as they looked. 

__

“Heather, everyone’s qualified to die. According to John Irving, we’re all terminal cases, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it. And this entire . . . scheme still leaves me uneasy. Too damned much can go wrong.” 

__

“Which is why I need you to make sure things go exactly the way Stanley Pertonelli recommends, dear. I take the curare blend, you call in the ambulance, I’m declared dead and I’m on my way to Resurrection Gardens.” 

__

Sugar Daddy set down the newspaper. “Tell me the truth—you sent the girls on vacation because you didn’t want them to know you were going to try this.” 

__

She nodded. “Ellie and Zoë earned the time off anyway, but yes—I didn’t want the added worry. I’m sure they’re having a lovely time in Santa Barbara, but that’s not the point, James.” 

__

“Then what is?—that you’ve still got what it takes? Because I don’t know who you need to convince,” he replied in a mild tone, his gaze still wandering over her lightly clad body. 

Seeing it, Miss Lollipop tried to shoot him a stern look, but couldn’t quite manage. “Jim . . .” 

__

“Sorry, a little distracted there,” he replied smoothly. “I don’t suppose I could grant a dying woman a last request?” She blushed, and Sugar Daddy savored the sight; he added, “When are they expecting your call?” 

__

“Between midnight and one,” Miss Lollipop replied, smoothly sliding over the covers to come closer to Sugar Daddy. “And since it’s only ten-thirty now—" 

__

“—You’ll need something to relax you, gotcha. Let’s see . . . “ he pretended to consider options as he pulled her into his lap. “Pinochle . . . TV . . . . Cross stitch . . .” Over his shoulder, Miss Lollipop reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it off. The bedroom went dark, and the soft sound of shifting cloth filled the room. “Ohhhh, yeah, you know, I think I like your suggestion here MUCH better—" 

__

“James darling, if I’m going to die tonight, I’m going to die _happy_.” 

__

“Mmmm, at this rate,” came his husky, happy growl, “--me too.” 

__

__*** *** ***_ _

__

Ecklie shifted uneasily. He was standing, caught between the rounded bulk of Bruce Eiger and the meaty muscle of the bodyguard at the door. Neither man seemed to being paying any attention to him, at the moment, and that was a small favor. 

__

The room was filled with television screens, and the majority of them were focused in wide-angle shots of various locations. Ecklie recognized the casino ones easily enough; the others were slightly confusing though, and he concentrated on them, wondering why a few looked vaguely familiar. 

__

One seemed to be a shot of the main emergency room doors of Desert Palm. Another was of some corporate meeting room table, complete with padded chairs and bland artwork on the walls. Yet another screen focused on a men’s room . . . Ecklie looked away when someone entered, feeling slightly nauseated. 

__

“I’m thinking of promoting you, Connie,” came Bruce’s mild rumble. Startled, Ecklie said nothing, but he felt the prickle of sweat along his upper lip. Bruce Eiger did nothing without expecting something in return—that was a given fact. 

__

“Uh, thank you.” 

__

“No problem. I appreciate loyalty, and I know you could use the extra money, what with your little bitty gal being in the family way and all.” 

__

Ecklie gritted his teeth when he heard the low chuckle of the bodyguard behind him. On one of the screens, someone walked past a blurry glass wall. 

__

“So it will be a good thing. A little more money, maybe some better hours . . .” Bruce commented cheerily. “I can be good to the people who stick with me. There’s just one small thing you gotta do first, okay? Think of it as an initiation of sorts.” 

__

Ecklie blinked. He looked at the wall of screens, and realized he recognized the blurry glass wall; hell, he wiped it down nearly every week . . . 

__

Bruce sighed and turned around, focusing his piggy eyes on the thin man before him. He smiled. “Connie. I know how much you hate working out at the Crime Lab, buddy, so here’s the thing—you’re gonna blow it up for me.” 


	4. Chapter 4

WEDNESDAY MORNING

 

The safe swung open, and Catherine tried not to look impressed. The fact that man in front of her knew about it galled her slightly; the added insult that he had the combination didn’t help either. Eight years she’d lived in the townhouse and had never known about this little cubby . . . 

 

“I don’t mean to rush you, Mrs. Willows, but time is of the essence,” he murmured, catching her distracted glance. She nodded guiltily and held out her gloved hands, taking the files he piled into them and carrying them over to the bed.

 

“Catherine. You can call me Catherine. And you know Sam’s in Las Vegas right now,” she murmured.

Mr. Peppermint sighed. “Yes, but I’d be willing to bet that he’s probably got someone keeping an eye on this townhouse.”

 

“And _me_ —go ahead and say it,” Catherine sighed back. She laid out the files in careful order across the bedspread, but didn’t open them, and looked over her shoulder. Mr. Peppermint was back in the exterminator jumpsuit, his dark framed glasses once again giving him a completely geeky demeanor. She flashed a grin. “So where’s the wife?”

 

“She’s . . . sitting this one out,” came the absent reply as he carried another load of files around to the other side of the bed. Catherine nodded, watching him lay out the folders neatly.

 

“Was she really pregnant?”

 

“Not this time. All right, we need to start scanning each page and then we’ll get the files back in the way we took them out.” He paused and looked across the bed at her, his expression serious. “This has to be quick, and I hate to say it, but there may be some material here that’s pretty horrific . . . Catherine.”

 

She surprised herself by nodding tightly. “I know. What can I do to help?”

 

He gave her a handheld scanner. “Start at the top of each page and sweep down quickly; they’re specially modified and have memory built in to them.”

 

It didn’t take long to get the hang of it, and Catherine forced herself to work carefully. She was aware of how empty the townhouse seemed, and how completely focused the man across from her was. The whole situation was definitely unnerving, so she spoke softly to break the silence. “Who’s going to get this information?”

 

“The proper authorities, through reasonable channels,” came the soft reply.

 

“Ah. And you think there’s enough here to bring my father down?”

 

“Catherine—” Mr. Peppermint looked up at her thoughtfully. “You know there is, and further, that it’s necessary. I understand that the Senator is your father, but this . . .” he trailed off, waving at a photo of a grinning teenage boy scantily dressed in nothing but a low-hanging towel.

 

Catherine winced. “Yeah. I guess I’m not thinking so much of him as I am of my daughter, and how this could . . . hurt her.”

 

“That’s why this is a two-part process,” Mr. Peppermint soothed her. “You and your daughter distance yourselves from the Senator, and start making new lives for yourselves while the authorities build the case against him.”

 

Catherine closed a file and opened another, looking at collection of unfamiliar financial statements. She sighed. “It’s so much easier to say than do. Washington is a small town, despite what anyone wants to admit, and I’ve got a lot of connections here. I don’t know how easy it will be to pull back from that.”

 

“Change is never easy,” came the soft murmur, “but in the end you’ll be securing justice for a number of the Senator’s other victims.”

 

After that, they scanned the rest of the files quietly. Catherine re-stacked her folders and waited as Mr. Peppermint finished up then stacked his. He carried his pile back to the safe and set them inside, then looked at her. She picked up her own and brought them back. Lightly she smiled. “How long have you been doing this?”

 

“A few years,” Mr. Peppermint replied gently. “Long enough to still get a great deal of satisfaction out of securing justice.”

 

She smiled at him wistfully. “Sounds . . . fulfilling.”

 

“It has its moments,” he agreed. “And now, I get to spray noxious-smelling chemicals all over this place so the housekeeper will know I did my job.”

 

Catherine grinned at his enthused expression. “Geez, you really get _into_ this, don’t you?”

 

Mr. Peppermint smiled, “No point in doing things if you can’t have some fun along the way.” He lowered his voice and added, “Not that I advocate killing insects; they’re highly useful and rarely do even a percentage of the damage that homeowners claim they do.”

 

Catherine tried hard to keep from laughing, but it was difficult; Mr. Peppermint looked so earnest behind his heavy glasses. She nodded instead, and waved a hand around the bedroom. “Spray away then. I’ll go see about getting us into Dad’s office on the Hill.”

 

*** *** *** 

 

WEDNESDAY MORNING

 

Sugar Daddy slumped on the vinyl sofa of the waiting room and clutched the cooling Styrofoam cup in his hand. He felt grit under his eyelids along with a weariness that ached right down to the bone. Around him, the little sounds of the hospital echoed, and he listened to them absently as he waited.

 

Waiting. It was something he’d done a lot in his life; all through his previous career and this one too, although not for stakes quite this high. He thought back to the night before, far back, when he’d felt the warm weight of Heather stretched out on him, sleek and slightly damp.

 

Sometimes good things happened, and he remembered feeling humble and happy in their halcyon moment of post-coital bliss. She’d cried a little in his arms, and her whispers had done a lot to bridge the years of the crazy holding pattern of their relationship.

 

_“I wanted you. I wanted this just once; just in case, Jim.”_

_“Don’t go through with it. Heather, it’s too damned much of a chance.”_

_“I have to,” she’d murmured against his bare collarbone, and he clung to her, wanting to draw out the moment forever._

 

And she’d . . . died, after that. Gotten up, dressed herself, taken the little dissolving tablet and dropped to the carpet in a curled heap, her dark hair like a fan over the acrylic Dupont broad weave.

 

“Mister Morris?” A voice broke into his reverie and Sugar Daddy looked up at the man in the dark suit. He blinked, and the other man held out a hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss. My name is Stanley Pertonelli, and I’m from the Resurrection Garden Funeral Home. I’m here to discuss a few arrangements your wife made, prior to this terrible night?” 

 

The man’s voice was urbane and smooth, low-pitched. Sugar Daddy stared a moment longer, then sighed; in that little moment of weakness Pertonelli gracefully sat down next to him on the sofa and settled in. 

 

Sugar Daddy instantly resented the practiced way the man did it. When Mr. Pertonelli leaned forward, the noxious sweetness of his aftershave flooded the personal space between them. He spoke again. “I don’t want to put any undue strain on you at this time; I only need your signature on a few documents here so we can expedite matters and take some of this _terrible_ burden off your shoulders, sir.”

 

“Documents?” Sugar Daddy managed to keep his voice low, and slightly confused. He shifted the coffee cup from one hand to the other, putting just the right amount of fidget into the gesture.  
Pertonelli nodded, and held out a clipboard with pages on it. There were little arrow Post-its indicating where to sign.

 

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The top one is a standard five-twenty-two that releases your loved one from the hospital into our custody. The second page is the authorization to attend to your loved one’s last requirements prior to viewing and eternal rest, and the last one is the financial agreement for all services rendered at this time.”

 

Sugar Daddy took the clipboard in one hand and glanced at it, noting the fancy logo of Resurrection Garden in the corner of all three documents: an Art Deco lily in a vase. He blinked a little and moved to set the coffee cup down, but the funeral director was smooth and gestured to take it as he held out a fine marble pen as well.

 

“It's all been so quick,” Sugar Daddy murmured, “First all the trouble at work, and now she’s gone--”

 

“These things happen,” Mr. Pertonelli replied urbanely. “Sometimes it’s hard to understand why.”

 

“She was so healthy,” Sugar Daddy persisted, “Should I let them do an autopsy?”

 

“Oh no,” Mr. Pertonelli murmured gently, although Sugar Daddy could see the man’s grip on the Styrofoam cup tighten at the suggestion. “The cause of death has already been determined, Mr. Morris, and it would be heartbreaking to cut into your wife for any reason. I don’t believe in mutilating Loved Ones myself. I prefer to keep them whole and perfect, just as the good Lord made them.”

 

“That sounds beautiful,” Sugar Daddy replied as he slowly wrote out _Boris Morris_ in clear script across the signature lines of all three forms. When he was done, Mr. Pertonelli looked at them and nodded with satisfaction.

 

“Perfect. Thank you for trusting us with the final arrangements for your wife, Mr. Morris. The viewing will be tomorrow then, in the Azure Room. And please accept my sincere condolences.”

 

Not trusting himself, Sugar Daddy nodded. He watched the funeral director glide away towards the offices of the hospital and when he was out of sight, Sugar Daddy rose up and wandered back through the swinging doors of the morgue. The heavy-set attendant across the room glanced at him briefly, then nodded towards the gurney neatly tucked in the first alcove. “She’s right there Mr. Morris. I’ll have her personal effects for you in just a minute.”

 

“Yeah, no hurry,” Sugar Daddy mumbled. He wandered over to the body on the gurney and laid a hand on the sheet that covered her while his other hand slipped into his pocket. He bent over a little, and let his shoulders shake.

 

In the course of his grief, he brought his hand out of his pocket and pulled a tiny spray bottle out. Moving gently, he uncapped it and inserted the nozzle into the pale shell of Miss Lollipop’s ear.  
He squeezed twice, then recapped the bottle, pulled away the paper label on it and carefully pressed the tiny, flat sided little container behind her ear. It stuck firmly and satisfied, Sugar Daddy gave a sigh. 

 

He spoke in a low whisper to the body. “I hope you can hear me, Heather so I’ll make this quick. Did the insulin and it’s behind your ear now. Pertonelli’s taking you out of here in less than an hour. God I love you, and I hate this whole set-up. I don’t care if you ARE my boss; you’re _never_ pulling this shit again.”

Moving quickly he tugged the drape from her face, bent, and kissed her cold lips. For a long moment Sugar Daddy looked down at her pale, still features. 

A little sparkle caught his glance, and he brought a finger up to brush the tiny leak of tears from under the lashes of her closed left eye. 

“Love you too,” he whispered, blinking hard, and then he turned to face the approaching attendant. 

_*** *** ***_

WEDNESDAY NOON 

Sara walked with Jelly Bean along the gravel paths, looking pensive. She patted her curly grey wig and glanced around the cemetery in the bright sunshine. “Hot.” 

“Vegas,” Jelly Bean replied softly. He looked adorable in his powdered white hair and thick glasses. Sara tried not to look at his lime green Sansabelt slacks hiked up enough to reveal his thick white socks in his battered Keds sneakers. 

She knew she didn’t look much better in her old lady makeup, faded housedress and worn pink sweater, but at least the straw hat Mr. Peppermint lent her kept most of the sun off. 

“So . . . let’s just pick a grave at random . . .” she suggested, and pointed with her chin towards the edge of the memorial park. Jelly Bean squinted in the direction she indicated and sighed. 

“Jeez, I can’t see a damned _thing_ in these lenses. I always thought if I went blind it would be for activities not on the job, you know.” 

“TMI,” Sara sang back, but grinned. “Hang on to my arm, you old geezer you, and we’ll make it to the columbarium together and find someone worthy of these flowers.” 

Cheered, Jelly Bean linked his arm in hers and they strolled companionably along the gravel path. There were a few other people about, and on the far side, a funeral was just finishing up. Sara looked towards the pavilion tent over the grave and slowly steered the two of them towards it.

Jelly Bean gave a nod. “Trying to get a sneak peek?” 

“Something like that. From what the records indicate, this cemetery has been around for about three decades, so a lot of the work has to be legit. I’m wondering if this funeral is or not.” 

“Well Ethel, let’s go have a look,” Jelly Bean snorted. “Nice Birkenstocks by the way—I love your pompom socks with them.” 

“Oh yeah, this from a guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt so blindingly neon that I’m sure the space shuttle pilots can see it.” Sara replied, stifling her giggle as she buried her nose in the bouquet she carried. 

Jelly Bean growled. “Hey, hey, this is a CLASSIC shirt. I’ve had offers on the street for this shirt!” 

“Oh I bet. Greg, you have hula girls in radiation pink all over you.” 

“Like I said; a classic. Besides, it’s Vegas. You can wear anything here and people don’t care. See anything yet?” 

Sara peered at the tent and the empty folding chairs. A groundskeeper was carrying off the flowers in their stands, and the coffin sat on the rails, looking ominous and sleek. “Not much. Let’s get closer and see if there’s anything about the hole that looks out of place.” 

They came over slowly, and Jelly Bean pulled out a handkerchief from one pocket to honk into it juicily. Sara glared at him, feeling herself slide into character; from the look through the heavy lenses of Jelly Bean’s glasses he was doing the same. 

“That was disgusting, Herbie, just disgusting. Do you HAVE to be so disgusting?” 

“I’m cloggy,” Jelly Bean whined back. ‘You want I should have mucus build up in my throat? Is that what you want?” 

“Don’t talk to me about mucus, we are in a SACRED place and the dead do NOT need to hear about your nasty mucus!” 

“The dead don’t care, Ethel. They’re, you know . . . dead. Anyway, where’s Ollie’s grave anyway? I thought you knew the way.” 

“I do . . . I’m just taking our time getting there,” Sara soothed him as they reached the pavilion tent. She blinked at the coffin. The groundskeeper shot her a quick disinterested glance and turned back to the chairs, starting to fold them up and stack them neatly on a dolly. “Oh look Herbie, I think that’s real mahogany there.” 

Jelly Bean reached out a hand; Sara noted he was wearing an ancient Timex far too large for his skinny wrist. He touched the casket gingerly. “Nah, nah, it’s not mahogany. It’s oak. Gotta nice stain though, and good varnish. Someone paid a pretty penny for this. Classy.” 

Sara shook her head doubtfully under the straw hat. “I think it’s mahogany. The grain is really dark, honey.” 

Jelly Bean let go of her arm and brought his face down to within an inch of the coffin; so close his reflection shone in the polished surface of the casket and Sara had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at his scrunched up expression of concentration. 

“Nope, s’oak, Pudding Pants. Oak with a heavy cherry stain and about three inches of varnish. Hoo boy, we’re talking Rockefeller box here, you know? I bet the lining is real silk too, none of that cheap-ass rayon stuff either. I’d give my left nut to be in a box THIS classy.” 

“Your left nut wouldn’t pay for the brass handles, you old fart,” Sara hissed sweetly, tugging him by the arm. “Stop with the dirty talk; we’re in a sacred place!” 

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the groundskeeper’s grin; Jelly Bean gave a put-upon sigh and rolled his magnified eyes. “Geez Ethel, don’t get your Depends in a twist. Come on, let’s go find Ollie and get this visit over with. They got golf on Channel Three this afternoon you know.” 

As they wandered away, Jelly Bean snorted under his breath. “For the record, my nuts are priceless—both of them.” 

Sara broke out laughing and covered it by turning it into a whooping wheeze of a cough that carried over the still air. 

Alarmed at the squeaky huffing sound, the groundskeeper looked over at them. Jelly Bean thumped Sara’s back and hollered. “He flew in your mouth? So swallow him, Ethel, it’s just a damned bug. Oh that’s right, you don’t swallow anymore _do_ ya?” 

Sara swatted him with the flowers, relieved to see out of the corner of her eye that the groundskeeper’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. Jelly Bean was snorting a bit himself, looking very mischievous in his little old man disguise. “I’m going . . . to KILL you—” she wheezed. 

Jelly Bean snickered. “We’re in the right place . . . so, about that grave. Did you see anything?” 

Sara caught her breath and let it out slowly. “No. Just a hole in the ground. But, I did think it was interesting that down in the depths there was a slab already on the bottom.” 

“A slab?” Jelly Bean inquired. 

Sara nodded. “A liner, but not made of cement. This one was enamel, and pebbled.” 

“Weird,” Jelly Bean agreed after a moment’s thought. He shuffled alongside Sara in silence for a moment, then added, “Do you feel some sort of vibration underfoot?” 

_*** *** ***_

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON 

Grissom made his way in to his room at the Patriot and climbed out of the exterminator jumpsuit. It was muggy, and he took a quick shower, cleaning up and changing into a dark business suit. As he knotted his tie, he casually flicked on his laptop and checked his Email. There were the usual update alerts from ABEbooks; a letter from his mother, who was currently on a cruise to Alaska; a note from Macy MacDonald, inviting him to the premiere of _Starship Intercourse_ —Grissom shook his head at that, wondering if the footage with Jaw Breaker and Licorice was still in the finished movie—and a note from someone called Honmei Choko. 

Something about that name clicked, and Grissom opened the Email, feeling amused. The feeling changed rapidly as the picture began loading on the screen. He stared, feeling the flush of heat along his face, and another one down the muscles of his stomach. 

Honmei Choko . . . 

It was a photo. She was standing, looking over her shoulder at the camera, her expression saucy and inviting. Her long, shapely legs were crossed, and she had her hands behind her pert bottom, clutching a small plastic bag with the logo of the Book Hive clearly visible on it. A charming picture at anytime, but the fact that aside from the sexy leopard Astrabellas she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on any of those velvety curves . . . 

Grissom whimpered, a low sound of fond frustration that echoed in the motel room. He kept staring, admiring and lusting over the photo, drinking in the image. He spoke softly to the screen, his voice low. “Want you. Forget that—NEED you.” 

He picked up his cell phone and tapped out a number from memory; the receiving end rang until finally a gravelly voice answered. “Desert Blooms, Husky speaking.” 

“I need to place an order for flowers, Mr. Belden,” Grissom spoke softly. “A rush job. Do you have any peppermint tulips in stock?” 


	5. Chapter 5

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

 

Miss Lollipop heard everything.

 

She would have gasped or cried out aloud . . . but she couldn’t; the paralysis from the curare blend was still in effect, and although she was aware of herself, she couldn’t even open her eyelids.

 

Bland muzak played; an orchestral version of _Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head_ , she noted. Miss Lollipop concentrated on her breathing, trying hard to deepen each incoming breath, hoping that it would help clear her thoughts. The squeak of a door; the echo of the music, and the hollow sound of approaching footsteps helped her figure out she was in a large room, but not a hospital. There were not blips from monitors, or low voices, no tinny pages over an intercom.

 

She breathed again, feeling her chest loosen slightly, and Miss Lollipop remembered Sugar Daddy’s voice; his words to her from sometime ago, low and full of love and pain. Words she’d wanted to echo back to him in her sorrow now; God the cost of putting him through this---

 

“Ah, Mrs. Morris, how are you doing?” came the mellow tone of Mr. Pertonelli. She tensed, not sure if her body reacted or not, but when he spoke again his voice was much closer.

 

Much closer.

 

“I know you’re a little confused my dear—it’s quite common to be paralyzed for at least twelve hours from the first dose. If you followed our instructions, then you know there’s nothing to worry about though—we’ll let you wake up and eat, then simply give you the second dose so that you can make it through your funeral. You’re going to make a lovely corpse, Mrs. Morris—quite exquisite . . .”

 

There was something about his lingering tone that left Miss Lollipop on the alert. She tried to open her eyes, and as she was struggling to do so, she felt the warm Listerine breath of Mr. Pertonelli against her cheek.

 

“Wakey, wakey Mrs. Morris.”

 

Then suddenly, she felt a rush of sensation, tingling and stinging along her limbs, like a niacin reaction and Miss Lollipop opened her heavy eyelids, her focus fuzzy in the bright light. She tried to open her mouth, but the Novocain sensation made it difficult to know if she had. Looming over her, Mr. Pertonelli flashed his dazzling porcelain teeth at her, his eyes knowing and the tiniest bit hungry. “Welcome back to the land of the living, my dear—if only for a short reprieve. How are you feeling?”

 

Miss Lollipop rolled her head to one side, noting the hypodermic in the funeral director’s hands. She worked her jaw a bit, and managed a low moan. He chuckled in response, and patted her arm familiarly. “Oh yes, a very common reaction I assure you. You’ll be regaining sensation in about half an hour, and we’ll feed you then. Soup would be best, I think—something bland. After we receive the confirmation of your first half of payment, we’ll put you under for your funeral, and then one more time back to join us here among the living. Not a bad arrangement for the price, you know.”

 

“C-c-c-cooold,” Miss Lollipop managed, feeling a little drool begin at the corner of her mouth. Mr. Pertonelli moved to wipe it with a Kleenex, his expression slightly condescending as he did so.

 

“That’s to be expected my dear—your circulation has been sluggish, along with your respiration. We’ll walk you around a bit, and you’ll feel better. And I know I don’t have to remind you that leaving is not recommended, Mrs. Morris . . . our little pantomime must be played out to the end for this to work, eh?” His words were silky, but there was a hardness in his tone, and Miss Lollipop looked up at the funeral director, who was staring down at her, his smile deceptively gentle.

 

She shivered again, and this one had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

 

*** *** ***

 

WEDNESDAY EVENING

 

Grissom checked himself in the reflection of a glass window, adjusting his tie a bit more. Next to him, Catherine Willows snorted, very softly. “Enough already—you look . . .” She couldn’t finish that compliment, so she took a different tack, “. . . just like a million other lobbyists around here. I can get you up to Dad’s office, and I can get Bernice out of the way, but I can’t promise you more than fifteen minutes of privacy, tops.”

 

“We’ll do what we can,” Grissom murmured quietly. He wore a brown plaid suit; this one a size too large, so that it hung on him and bagged in the middle. Grissom had added a pocket protector and a tie with bright yellow Tonka trucks on it to his ensemble. His hair had been temporarily dyed a mousy shade of brown as well, and he sported thick, woolly sideburns straight out of the Seventies.

 

Catherine had trouble looking at him directly, so she chose to glance at the elevator doors instead and shift the gift bag she carried from one hand to the other. She cleared her throat. “Fifth floor, office five twenty-eight. Since Dad’s out of town, his usual staff is on leave. Bernice mans the office all the time, but the press secretary, the steno and Secret Service are all on other duties for the moment.”

 

“Got it,” Grissom murmured gently. “Should be fairly simple.”

 

They took the elevator up together; Catherine risked a single sidelong glance at Grissom and he was startled at her expression of wistfulness. She smiled briefly. “God it must be great to have so much fun with a vocation.”

 

Before he could respond, the elevator doors opened and they stepped out into the hall of the fifth floor. It didn’t take long to find the office with the nameplate: Samuel Braun, Senator: Nevada on the door. Catherine sailed in calling loudly. “Bernice? Are you here?”

 

“Oh Cathy dear, yes I am, of course I am!” came the grandmotherly tones. A tiny woman with a towering grey beehive looked up from a typewriter and beamed at her. Then her expression went neutral at seeing Grissom. “Sir?”

 

“Yah, Edward Sees, engineer, here to talk to the Senator about the new highway project through the Lake Mead area? I called on Tuesday, mentioned I’d be in town and I could get him those statistics he wanted about an environmental impact study because we all believe in wildlife but you know people have to get around too.” Grissom blurted out, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other.

 

Bernice eyed him with resignation. “I’m sorry Mr. Sees, but the Senator is currently unavailable.”

 

Grissom managed to look utterly crestfallen. “Say it isn’t so!”

 

“It’s so,” Catherine replied, fighting a grin. “Too bad about that—he’s in Las Vegas right now.”

 

Grissom thinned his lips and nodded a little; Catherine waited a moment and spoke up again. “Look, why don’t you leave the files here with Bernice and she’ll make sure he gets them, okay? Would that be all right with you, Bernice?”

“Certainly. I’ll make sure they get the Senator’s full attention the moment he gets back,” she replied dryly.

Grissom smiled in relief. “Oh that would be great ma’am, just great because then I can get back to the Bureau of Land Management and talk to my boss about moving the timeline for the project around depending on the senator’s input after the impact study and the negotiations with the reservation people on both sides of the state line—“

 

“—GOOD. That’s wonderful Mr. Sees, so you just leave the file, all right? Bernice will take great care of it, and everyone will be happy,” Catherine told him. Then she turned back to the petite woman behind the desk. “Bernice, I know it’s not your birthday, but I saw this at the Lord and Taylor out at the mall and thought of you,” she cooed, holding out a gift bag.

 

The elderly secretary gave a little squeal, sounding just like an excited chipmunk. “Ooooh Cathy honey that’s so sweet of you! What is it?”

 

At that moment, Grissom used his thumb to flip the single snap of his ancient attaché case, and it popped open. A cascade of files, papers and pens dropped to the carpet, scattering everywhere. “Oh damn! Er, pardon my French there—hang on—” Grissom set his briefcase down and started picking up the papers. Bernice hovered, caught between the impulse to help and the gift bag still in her hands.

 

Catherine took charge. “Bernice, the bag—I’m sure Mr. Sees can handle his little accident here.”

 

Doubtfully, Bernice gave a shrug and pulled a frilly mauve blouse from the gift bag, then squealed again. “Oh Cathy, it’s bee-YOU-ti-ful!”

 

“Let’s see if it’s the right size. I wasn’t sure, and I still have the receipt if we need to take it back.” Casting a disdainful glance at Grissom’s backside, Catherine added, “Mr. Sees, would you mind manning the phones while we ladies step out for a moment?”

 

“Sure no problem, it’ll take me a couple three minutes to get these files back in order anyway,” came the distracted voice. Catherine herded Bernice out, the two of them chattering away about spring fashions.

 

Grissom waited a moment until their footsteps died away, then moved to the door and locked it. Then he undid the secret compartment inside the empty attaché and looked at his selection of infiltration tools thoughtfully. He selected a pick, and looked towards the big office through the doorway on the far side of the room.

 

“Let’s see what’s in your drawers, Senator,” he murmured.

 

*** *** ***

 

WEDNESDAY EVENING

 

Sara carried the vase against her chest, feeling the cool glass even through her sweater. The red and white tulips swayed a little with each step, looking elegant in their arrangement. She had a dry cleaner bag draped over her other shoulder, so her arms were full; nevertheless she strode quickly towards the pier gate for Grace Marina, preoccupied for the moment. The sun had gone down and the first purple touch of twilight stretched over the Nevada sky, blending in with the pink and orange sherbet of sunset. Sara looked out across the still, glassy water of the lake and smiled.

 

She opened her mailbox outside the pier gate and added the envelopes to her purse, then fished for her keys. Straightening up, she glanced at the Boston Bohemian when a tiny red flicker caught her eye.

 

Sara looked again, carefully. It flashed out again, from the mast of the Bohemian, just a second of ruby against the darkening sky. Sara frowned. She never turned on the flash for her camera; that feature would have defeated its purpose.

 

She unlocked the gate, and passed through, making it a point not to look up at the mast, making it to the boat and stepping onto the deck. Sara carried her flowers and dry cleaning down into the boat, putting them away before climbing back up to the deck.

 

As she stood under the mast she looked up at the security camera and moved the thin light of a Mag penlight along the underside. Sara spotted the splice to the feed, noting the professional job and the white tape to mask it. She clicked the light off, and thought hard for a long moment, feeling a rush of paranoia and anger mingled with curiosity.

 

Who the hell?

 

Followed by—

 

Why?

 

Sara smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant one.

 

Within a few minutes she was back with a fingerprint kit. She carefully stood on a spare crate and dusted the mast, then lifted the two prints she found there. Pocketing them, she cleared off the powder, and then looked again at the camera.

 

It hadn’t been moved; the angle was the same as when she’d mounted it originally, which meant it was still focused on the dock and the gate . . . and the marina keeper’s house on the hill.

 

Sara frowned. She turned back and went down into the boat, heading for her laptop as she set her teakettle to boil. By the time the water was hot, she’d logged into the Candy Shop databases and began to search out the name Melanie Grace.

 

_U/S, affil C. Ecklie, Lic/Jaw OI_ came up and Sara sighed.

 

U/S; under surveillance. Affil, affiliated with C. Ecklie, whoever that was. Lic/Jaw were Licorice and Jaw Breaker, and OI meant an ongoing investigation of some sort. She sat back in her chair, feeling annoyed.

 

Fine. An ongoing investigation didn’t bother her, but using HER security system, and without prior permission sucked. For a moment she was tempted to go up and cut the wires, but she held back, trying to work out the puzzle herself.

 

If Melanie Grace was being watched, then . . . was the opening here at the marina a matter of chance? Or convenience? Who was C. Ecklie? Why hadn’t anyone at the Shop seen fit to tell her about this, and did Grissom know?

 

Sara felt the fingerprint cards in her pocket and wondered if one of them would be his. Hating herself for the doubt, she blinked hard, her gaze on the vase of peppermint tulips.

 

Don’t trust Licorice, Jaw Breaker or Jelly Bean, his note had said, and for a moment Sara felt better. She stood up, moved to the control panel and very gently flicked the camera off.

 

Sara waited, and it wasn’t long.

 

Her cell phone rang and she looked at the number, feeling an odd hollowness in her stomach. Carefully she answered it. “Hello?”

 

“Hey Sare—so what are you wearing tomorrow?” came Jelly Bean’s chatty tone. “Black is SO not my color, and I’d hate to be in the same outfit, you know?”

 

“Greg, unless you’re planning on sable crepe slacks and a Tonia La Mesa blouse with pearl accessories, we’re not going to look a thing alike, okay?” she responded with a lightness she didn’t feel. Carefully she climbed up the ladder and peeked out from the hatch, looking towards the house and the parking lot. There were no signs of movement or lights in either location.

 

“Damn! I had my pearls all laid out, too,” came the teasing reply. “Bitch.”

“Suffer,” came Sara’s reply. She waited, feeling the question would come in one form or another.

 

“So--you’re at home, right?”

 

Bingo.

 

“Yep. Picked up my dry cleaning and I’m thinking about what I want for dinner. You know there’s this little vegetarian bistro in Paris that does a fennel stew that just rocks. Sautéed, with real olive oil and ground black pepper . . .” she murmured gently.

 

“Dinner I can do, but not Paris,” came Jelly Bean’s mock-mournful sigh. “It would be too much trouble to go to France for dinner anyway—a Bistro d’ Burden, you know? But there’s a cool spot on the south side of the strip—the Avocado Pit. I’d be happy to take you there. Much closer than Paris, and fully of that darned veggie goodness you insist on.”

 

“Greg, I thought the Shop had a no-fraternization policy,” she pointed out. There was a little pause, and when he came back on the line, his voice was softer.

 

“Yeah, but I won’t tell if you won’t tell—besides, we’re not fraternizing . . . we’re—consoling each other on the loss of a sister. Yeah. Consoling.”

 

“Depends. Are you paying?”

 

“Only if you lend me the money,” he shot back and she could hear the grin in his voice as he wheedled, “Just ‘till payday—”

 

“Only if you eat ALL your vegetables,” Sara replied.

 

“Man, you drive a HARD bargain. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

 

As she hung up the phone, Sara wondered how many glasses of wine she might have to pour into Jelly Bean to get the answers she wanted.

 

*** *** ***

 

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

 

Miss Lollipop heard everything.

 

Cold dread soaked through her immobile limbs, and even the knowledge of what was to come didn’t help.

 

“So very pretty, you know. Your make up is perfect, and I think Miss Tressel did a very nice job on your hair . . . It’s lovely to work with such a beauty as yourself, Mrs. Morris.”

 

She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak and the sound of that odious voice above her . . . desperately Miss Lollipop tried to concentrate on something good here in the darkness of her closed eyes; something positive, just the way she encouraged clients to do. A green meadow, maybe. Or a mountain lake—

 

“And certainly the dress fits well . . . but the hemline is too long, really. It doesn’t show off your lovely legs, or exquisite physique, you know . . .”

 

Ever since the interview with Theresa Cornejo, Miss Lollipop had _known_. Had understood why she had to do this mission herself instead of assigning it any other woman. A mountain lake, with flowers; maybe daisies--

 

“. . . So we’ll just shift this a bit—you don’t mind, do you Mrs. Morris? Well of course not. You _can’t_ , can you? No, no, you certainly won’t be going to the police later, not with the embezzling charge hanging over you. So pretty my dear. Yes, long lovely thighs, pale and pretty . . .”

 

_Big daisies, with petals and sweet green stems--_

 

“And oh, how naughty of you, Mrs. Morris! To be buried with no panties like this---pretty as a picture. In fact . . .”

 

Miss Lollipop heard click and whirr of the camera. She concentrated hard, fighting the scream in her head.

 

_Daisiesdaisiesdaisies_


	6. Chapter 6

THURSDAY MORNING

 

Grissom looked at the two safety deposit box keys in his hand, weighing them carefully. They were copies—extremely good ones—of a pair from Senator Braun’s desk. They had no markings on them, unlike the originals, but Grissom knew the location of the bank in question.

 

The more important question now was how to get to the box in that bank.

 

He had several options open to him at the moment. Two were solitary jobs: risky, but possible. The third would require assistance from Ms. Willows. Grissom would have much preferred Miss Chocolate, but given that wasn’t possible, he considered his situation.

 

Senator Braun had a safety deposit box in the Eagle American bank. The bank was situated between a Waffle World restaurant and a Mile Chai coffee house, not ten minutes from his office. And if the bank was that close, Grissom reasoned, going disguised as Braun was no good—people would know the Senator on sight.

 

He looked again at the schematics on the computer screen in front of him. The layout of the bank was typical of most built in the seventies: wide lobby, long bank of tellers, safety deposit boxes off in a room to one side—in this case the north side—of the bank, back up against the shared wall with Waffle World.

 

Drilling would take too long, and be too hard to cover up. It had to be a walk-in job, with misdirection a key factor. Grissom sighed, realizing that because time was so critical now, he’d have to use Mrs. Willows again. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for her room at the Potomac Princess. It rang twice before being picked up.

 

“Hello?” came her cautious question.

 

“Catherine. Any problems?”

 

“Not yet, but I’d like to get back to Vegas soon,” came her sigh.

Grissom smiled a little. “I understand, and I think we’re almost through. I found some keys for a safety deposit box in your father’s desk—the Eagle American, according to the envelope they were in.”

 

“Yeah, that’s an old account, from his first year in Washington.”

 

“We need to get into it.”

 

“That will be a hell of a trick—got any sneaky maneuvers for that one?” she replied dryly.

Grissom made a soft little sound of affirmation. “Actually I do, but I’ll need your help. It involves being part of a distraction again though. Do you think you can handle being slightly humiliated for a good cause?”

 

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then—“It better be a damned GOOD cause.”

 

“One of the best,” Grissom assured her.

 

Catherine sighed. “Okay . . . can you at least give me a hint as to what’s going to happen?”

 

“I think you’re going to have a close encounter of the strange kind,” was all Grissom said gently. “I have a reliable associate who’ll do a good job, but you’ll have to trust me.”

 

He could hear Catherine’s hesitation, but he gave her time to answer; if anything, Grissom respected that she understood the stakes a lot more than she had before this.

 

“Let’s do it,” she murmured with resignation. “Dignity I can handle the loss of; life, not so much.”

 

After deciding on a time, Grissom hung up, and dialed another number. The phone rang once before being picked up. A deep voice answered, a faint hint of a New Jersey accent in it. “Charlie Bucket, is that you?”

 

“One and the same, Mike Teevee. I have a quick half-day job for you if you don’t mind getting your front line recycler costume out,” Grissom replied.

 

A low chuckle greeted this offer followed by, “You know I can’t pass up a good con, don’t you? Come on by the shop and we’ll talk.”

 

“Yes, but I’m warning you now; it’s a rush, so the rate goes to double, with the standards for the disavow waiver up front.”

 

“I’m good with it—I’ll spring for lunch. You up for Little Tavern?” the voice asked.

“Yep.”

“Good. Bring me some too--I’ll pay you back,” came the request before the line went dead. Grissom laughed to himself and closed the phone.

*** *** *** 

The little shop was one of a group clustered along the end of a street at the edge of the suburbs, and the sign out front proclaimed it the place to be Comet Electronics. Grissom walked in, carrying the paper bags, glad to see that it was nearly empty of customers; only a pair of teenagers perusing the merits of various speakers stood near the door. Grissom looked over at the counter.

 

Behind it lounged a tall dark-haired man with rolled-up shirtsleeves, who was staring at the inner workings of a dismantled cell phone. Grissom came closer, looking down at the components. “Dead?”

 

“We can rebuild it. We have the technology. Better than it was before. Better…stronger…faster,” the man murmured solemnly, looking up at his visitor.

 

“Hopefully for under six million dollars,” Grissom added. The man nodded, his fingers efficiently turning a screwdriver.

 

“Closer to about eighty bucks, battery not included. So, tell me what I can do for a fellow confectionist?”

 

Grissom passed the warm bag to the man and leaned on the counter himself. The teenagers slouched out the door, and when it closed behind them, he spoke up.

 

“I need you to create a nice distraction for me while I do some banking, Mike. I’ve got an associate you can use as a prop.”

 

Grissom slid a small photo of Catherine across the counter; Mike picked it up and studied it briefly, his eyebrows quirking a little. “And you’re paying me to harass _this_?”

 

“Call it a perk of the mission,” Grissom responded, adding, “She’s a senator’s daughter, so if I were you, I’d be judicious about whatever you plan to do. I need at least eight to ten minutes, and I’m authorized to offer double the rate per minute.”

 

Mike looked from the photo to the semi-dismantled cell phone. “You’re on the clock, okay. Where and when?”

 

“American Eagle Bank,” Grissom rattled off the address. Mike nodded, scratching his chin with the point of the screwdriver.

 

“I know the place—near the end of the block, has an alley on the other side of the waffle joint, right?”

 

Grissom nodded, and began to unpack the paper bag. “Yeah. I cased it earlier too. They have a single security guard who goes on break around ten thirty and three fifteen as well as two cameras—one that scans over the teller windows and one mounted for the safety deposit box room over on the left hand side of the building. What were you considering doing?”

 

Mike fished out a few of the deathballs and wolfed them down; the hot tiny hamburgers were even smaller than White Castle ones. Grissom fished in the bag for catsup, and for a while the two of them ate. Finally Mike dabbed his mouth with a napkin and tinkered a moment longer with the cell phone.

 

“Homeless vet, probably. This is a town all keyed up about Iraq as it is, and the pretty lady here can claim it was all a political statement aimed at her father. I’ll give you a scrambler for the deposit room camera too. Are we shooting for AM or PM?”

 

“Tomorrow AM—deadline,” Grissom replied. “Be there around ten fifteen or so.” He fished in the breast pocket of his jacket for a flash drive and passed it to Mike. “The standards.”

“Ah, paperwork,” he commiserated, and then passed the repaired cell phone over to Grissom. “Lemme return the favor . . . this one’s got an inbuilt jamming frequency, voice inversion for complete privacy and an off switch option for GPS.”

Grissom stared at the little phone and smiled. “I’ll take two.”

 

Mike grinned.

 

*** *** *** 

 

THURSDAY NOON

 

Sugar Daddy sat in the Azure Viewing Room, trying to focus. Miss Chocolate and Jelly Bean had just stormed out, and the emotional scene they’d just played out had been enough to bring a few embarrassed glances from people passing by beyond the door. He rubbed his hands along his thighs, and then made his way back to the casket, steeling himself for another look at Miss Lollipop.

 

She lay there, beautiful and still; he reached down and carefully let his finger touch the pale pink of one shell-like ear, curling around it until he touched the tip of the little spray bottle. 

 

Sugar Daddy shifted, and let the bulk of his back block the overhead camera as he tugged the bottle free and uncapped it. He inserted the tip into her ear and squeezed, hearing the tiny pneumatic hiss in the quiet of the funeral home. “Jesus, Heather—this is cutting it close,” he grumbled in a tiny whisper, “Waaay too close.”

 

He heard footsteps. Fumbling a little, Sugar Daddy pushed the bottle back behind Miss Lollipop’s ear and looked over his shoulder, expecting Mr. Pertonelli, but the man who shifted into view in the doorway of the Azure Viewing Room was shorter and balding, with a white beard. He braced himself with a pair of gleaming aluminum canes.

 

For a moment the two men stared at each other, then the well-dressed stranger lurched in, moving towards the casket with surprising speed. “So it’s true . . . she really DID die.” 

 

Sugar Daddy glared; the other man shot him a hard stare back, speaking once more. “My condolences,” he growled without a shred of sincerity. “It’s a terrible thing to lose a loved one. Was it suicide?”

 

“What?” Sugar Daddy blurted back, moving away from the casket and facing the bearded stranger. The other man shook his head disgustedly.

 

“So she just died. How . . . _convenient_. Did you know your wife stole two million dollars from me, Mr. Morris? Did she tell you about deliberately mismanaging the retirement accounts and siphoning off a fortune, or did she keep you in the dark as well?”

 

“Who the HELL are you?” Sugar Daddy intoned in a low, dangerous voice. 

 

“My name is Russell Stover, and your wife worked for me,” came the curt reply. “Up until last Monday, when I told her I was going to charge her with embezzlement and fraud.”

 

For a long moment Sugar Daddy said nothing as he stood staring. Part of him realized that this was as much window-dressing for this mission; another layer of pretense to carry off the investigation. But the other, deeper part felt a sense of dull anger at the sight of this stranger stepping in where he wasn’t wanted or needed.

 

“Yeah, we’ll she’s dead now, and I don’t know a Goddamned thing about money or accounts or fraud, Mr. Stover. You want to look into my wife’s financial assets, you go right ahead, but get the HELL out of here before I kick your crippled ass all the way to the coast, you got that?”

 

“Temper, temper!” came the disdainful chide. Leaning closer, the man on the crutches added in a soft, kind undertone, “I can tell she’s in good hands. See you at the funeral.”

 

Then, with a huffy swing of his shoulders he turned and swung out of the room, the thump of his canes muffled somewhat by the carpet. Dizzily, Sugar Daddy watched him go, his fists clenching tightly. After a moment, when he felt his temper was back under control, he returned to the side of the coffin and gazed down at Miss Lollipop once more. 

 

A shadow caught his eye; a small discrepancy marring the perfection. Sugar Daddy narrowed his gaze, and ever so casually stroked a hand along the hemline of the blue dress where the edge was much darker. 

 

His fingers came back wet and sticky.

 

*** *** ***

 

FRIDAY MORNING

 

Catherine Willows checked her purse for her compact and carefully powdered her nose. The mid-morning line she stood in was moving slowly across the lobby, filled with customers who were probably all depositing paychecks. She noted Grissom, over at the security deposit box counter, industriously filling out a rental form. He looked nondescript in his dark suit and tie; just another face in the crowd of federal employees around her. At the door, the security guard—an older, heavyset black man with a grey hair and matching goatee—was already checking his watch more frequently.

 

Catherine could see the rectangular bulge in his breast pocket and figured his nicotine habit had him on a tight schedule. She angled her mirror towards the door behind her, watching and waiting.

 

Finally the security guard looked towards the front of the bank and seemed to give a nod to someone there. He stepped out and Catherine watched him pass outside along the glass windows, moving towards the alley, probably to have a good long smoke.

 

She put her compact away.

 

A few minutes later, a tall guy in a ragged army jacket and threadbare jeans pulled open the glass door of the bank and stepped in. He was mumbling softly to himself, and Catherine noted everyone shifting to avoid eye contact with him. He moved past her, reeking of sweat and dirt; she caught his deep voice: “Ooh, see the fire is sweepin’ . . . our very street today . . . burns like a red coal carpet . . . mad bull lost its way . . .”

 

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh at the lyrics. The man’s hair was long and shaggy, a brownish shade too light for his pale skin under his five o’clock shadow. Catherine shot a glance at Grissom, who was still filing out his form unconcernedly. Then the stranger turned back to face her, and she noticed the bloody bandage across the bridge of his nose, the broken military issue glasses held together at the temples with duct tape.

 

“War, children, it’s just a shot away—it’s just a shot away . . .” he murmured, a little more loudly this time. People shifted away again, and she felt herself cringe a bit. The man stopped and looked at her directly. “I tell you love . . . sister, it’s just a kiss away . . . It’s just a kiss away . . .”

 

Already a worried looking bank official with a name tag that read _Norman Varnall_ was moving towards them, speaking in a low voice. “Sir, if you could step right this way—”

 

The vet looked at him. “Kiss away!” he snarled. A few people snickered, especially when the bank official flinched and stepped back. Before Catherine realized it, the vet had cupped her elbow and was tugging her out of line. He looked at her and smiled. “Let’s spend the night together---” he crooned. 

 

Catherine blushed. “I don’t think so, buster,” she informed him tightly. 

He frowned. “Is there nothing I can say, nothing I can do . . . to change your mind? I’m so in love with you—” came his wry response.

 

He’d tugged her out to the middle of the lobby floor, and fascinated, people all over the bank were watching the two of them; more of the bank employees were moving in now, wary and focused. The vet hummed a little and swung Catherine around.

 

Norman Varnall spoke up again. “Sir, unhand that young lady and step away from her please. You need to calm down.”

 

“Go running for the shelter of a mother’s little helper . . .” The vet commented using his free hand to gesture rudely. A few people snickered again while Catherine tried to pull away, but the vet’s grip had tightened, and he waltzed her around once more, his words getting louder now.

 

“Don’t you know promises were never made to keep? Just like the night, dissolve in sleep. I’ll be your savior, steadfast and true. I’ll come to your emotional rescue—"

 

“Oh yeah? Well hey, you, get off of my cloud!” Catherine snarled, and swung her hand across his face. It hit with a loud crack, and everyone froze for a moment, stunned at the gesture. The vet blinked a little as the bright red imprint of Catherine’s palm showed up on his cheek. He tugged her closer, his dark brows lowering, an amused smirk on his lips.

 

“I’ll never be your beast of burden . . my back is broad but it’s a hurting . . All I want is for you to make love to me!” before she would say a word, the man had jerked her to him and was kissing her hard and deep and fast.

 

Catherine fought for a moment, overwhelmed by the heated clean mint taste of his mouth, the looming strength that cradled her rather than crushed her. Dimly she thought: _oh wow, he uses mouthwash--_ Around them came a few cries of concern and one or two laughs. Before she could do anything more than moan against the sweet tickle of the man’s tongue along hers he pulled back, breathing hard, kissed the tip of her nose and let her go.

 

“Wild horses, baby,” he assured her, and charged for the door. People scattered, and rounding the corner of the bank, the guard returned just in time to be barreled into and dropped by the running man. The vet turned the corner and disappeared within a few seconds, leaving stunned murmurs in his wake. Catherine blinked, utterly overwhelmed for a moment, and when Norman Varnall placed a hand on her shoulder she flinched.

 

“Are you all right, Miss? Did he hurt you?” came the concerned questions. She shook her head, looking around the bank, where people were milling around a bit, and trying to get back in lines. Grissom was still over at the security box counter, speaking in a cell phone.

 

“I’m . . . fine, really, just a little shaken up . . . may I sit down somewhere?” she murmured, batting her eyes at Norman Varnall.

 

*** *** ***

 

On the next street over, the Comet Electronics van sat parked at a well-fed meter. In the back, Mike pulled off his bandages and wig, tossing them into a duffle bag as he spoke softly into the cell phone. “You got the goods?”

 

“I think we both did,” came the dry response from Grissom. “Face hurt much?”

 

“Nah, it was a girly slap—good Stones comeback though,” Mike replied, wincing as he rubbed his cheek and shut the cell phone. He made his way to the driver’s seat of the van and pulled off his smelly army jacket, tossing it to the passenger side door then drove to the end of the block and stopped there; Grissom climbed in and reached for the shoulder harness, strapping himself in as he set his attaché at his feet.

 

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, and then Mike cleared his throat. “So---”

 

“So?” Grissom replied distractedly. “You’ll be getting an automatic deposit from Las Vegas Confections as usual. Thanks for the rush job, Mike, I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem,” Mike replied, pulling into traffic. He licked his upper lip and grinned. “Think I can get her phone number too?”


	7. Chapter 7

FRIDAY MID-MORNING

 

Sara took a deep breath and circled around the private office again, walking quietly. She had on a medical smock and latex gloves, and her hair was tied back, looking casual but in place for Resurrection Garden—a quick study of the employees on their breaks out back had given her the basic ensemble.

 

At the moment, nobody else was in the office, and she’d locked the door behind her again to give her some privacy as she assessed the situation. Filing cabinets, but probably not worth going through—a computer on the desk, which was more likely as a source of info, and a walk-in safe, which looked most promising of all. It resembled an elegant broom closet, and she noted the Chubb brand logo across the dial on the door.

 

Decision time: pick, or crack?

 

Sara looked at the safe door once more. It was a very old model, probably from the early fifties, with peeling paint along the hinges and a dusty look to it. The thing had probably been installed at the same time the building had been built. That, Sara knew, might make it easier to figure out the combination.

 

On the other hand, she didn’t know how much time she had, precisely. Pertonelli was out—supposedly at Miss Lollipop’s funeral—and even though Jelly Bean was stationed there to keep a lookout, it was entirely possible that he could be somewhere on the premises too. If that was the case, then cracking the safe with a few jam shots along the hinges might be best.

 

Sighing, she tapped her earpiece and spoke softly. “Hey . . . you see the director yet?”

 

“Not yet,” came Jelly Bean’s slightly bleary voice, "Although Daddy’s here, along with some dude on canes. For the record, my head reeeeeally hurts and I resent you a LOT right now.”

 

Sara grinned and ran a gloved hand over the dial of the safe, looking at the mechanism carefully. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to watch out for women who order Jaegermeister instead of white wine spritzers at dinner?”

 

“Nope, she was too busy lecturing me on the evils of playing with myself and using public toilets,” came the low sigh.

Sara smirked.“Live and learn, Bean Man. At least I’m not going to kill you for cutting into my camera now.” Gently Sara turned the dial; it moved sluggishly, and she concentrated on the feel as the tumblers sifted.

In her ear, Jelly Bean gave another little groan.“Yeah well I’ll say I’m sorry again and it wasn’t _my_ idea, but you’ve gotta admit it’s expedient, right? If we have to keep tabs on that Ecklie guy, it makes sense to use a remote camera already pointed in the right direction. My mouth feels like a baby dragon’s potty.”

 

“Drink a huge glass of lemon juice and Tabasco . . .”

 

“Will it help?”

 

“No, but it will be funny to watch your face if you do it,” Sara teased. The first turn around the dial had resulted in two definite clicks; one on the nineteen and another on the five. That was definitely promising; she thought hard and spoke softly once more.

 

“Greg, what year was Resurrection Gardens built—do you know?”

 

“Sometime in the Fifties. Hey, wasn’t Miss L going to be cremated?” came Jelly Bean’s question. Sara stared at the dial once more and tried zero. Nothing.

 

“Yeah, that was what she first thought, but it’s the burials that are the returnees—the cremations are legit. Why?”

 

“Just checking—the coffin’s being unloaded now. Pertonelli’s here.”

 

Sara dialed nineteen, five and one this time. Nothing. Then nineteen, five and two. The door remained stubbornly shut, and Sara chuffed a little, stirring her bangs as she eyed the door.

 

“Okaaay, I don’t know what’s going on, but SD looks like he’s ready to tear Pertonelli’s throat open and yank the dude’s pecker through the bloody hole,” Jelly Bean murmured warningly.

 

“That’s not good,” came Sara’s distracted comment. She dialed nineteen, five and three. The door clunked and swung open. Grinning broadly, Sara buffed her nails on her smock front for a second in self-congratulations, then rose up and pulled the door wide. “Oh, FYI? Resurrection Gardens was built in nineteen-fifty-three.”

 

“I’ll remember that for the big test.”

 

“Shhh, just keep an eye on Pertonelli while I finish up here,” came her soft order. She carefully stepped inside, and slipped out of her shoe, using it as a wedge to keep the door ever so slightly open behind her. A string dangled next to her ear, and Sara tugged on it; weak light from a sixty-watt bulb filled the tiny space.

 

Sara looked around at the shelves. There were a few moneyboxes on a shelf to the left, and a hanging file box with neatly lettered tabs. Moving closer, she looked at the file and skimmed the tabs: Accounts, A-F/ G-M/N-R/S-Z; Formula; Personnel; Personal.

 

Curiously, she looked into the first folder and found a printed chart with an alphabetical listing of names, causes of death, dates and amounts. Sara recognized the last three names on the list; Lyle Tarkov, Theresa Cornejo and Delores Morris. Smiling, she pulled the file out. Carefully she flipped through the folder that read Formula and skimmed the stack of chemistry notations, then took those as well, adding them to the papers in her hand. She listened carefully but heard nothing for a moment, then turned back to the files.

 

Personnel yielded a list of names, only two of which were vaguely familiar, but Sara took the list anyway. She reached the one labeled Personal and pulled out a sheaf of glossy eight by eleven prints, puzzling for a moment at what she was seeing.

 

Then she fought a hard gasp.

 

“Sara?” came Jelly Bean’s concerned comment in her ear.

 

“Shhh, I’m . . . okay,” she stammered.

 

The photos were in color, clearly focused and obscene. Sara’s grip on them trembled a little, but she looked at every one of the eight photos carefully, taking in the humiliation evident in each one. When she reached the last one, she bit her lips, feeling a surge of personal despair at the sight.

 

Sara added the photos to the bottom of her handful and forced herself to look around the safe once more. On the other side of the safe was another box of files with labels marked Insurance, Business License, Crematorium Permit, W2s, Tax Papers but Sara barely noted them. She tugged out the light, moved to the door, stepped back into her shoe and slipped out, closing the safe behind her.

 

“Okay, out of here and clear. What’s going on at your end?”

 

“Just about to bury her. Same enamel liner at the bottom as the other grave.”

 

Sara left the office and made her way out of the mortuary.

 

*** *** ***

 

FRIDAY EVENING

 

She lay still. The stifling darkness around her vibrated though, and she felt herself shift. Miss Lollipop tried to concentrate, feeling slightly sick as memories of Mr. Pertonelli’s voice echoed in her head.

 

“The best thing to do is concentrate on memories or plans, Mrs. Morris. The formula is quite effective for your physical state, but your mental awareness will be unimpaired, so you may want to consider a few diversions for your long wait. We have a few audio books and music of course, although not everyone chooses those.

 

And if you’re thinking of revenge, my dear, please don’t waste your time. There are unpleasant aspects to every business deal, and really, you’re not naïve. We have your complete future in our hands, so I’m sure you’re not going to risk that over my little personal . . . quirk. In any case, a good shower and you’ll be well clean of my nasty impulses, won’t you my dear?”

 

She listened. The sound of hydraulics--the underground elevator-- had died away, and now heavy clumps rained down. A surge of panic shot through her, and Miss Lollipop thought again of a field of daisies, bright and cheerful, stretching over a green field.

 

She held that thought for a long time, wrapping it around her mind.

 

Gradually she heard a slow creaking sound, then a rumble. It seemed to take years, but finally cooler air brushed her face and Miss Lollipop felt a surge of relief.

 

Then came the cold touch of fingers along her jaw. “And once again in the land of the living. Time to rise, Mrs. Morris . . . it’s a lovely thing you have good credit, my dear, otherwise I might have had to let you stay buried, eh?”

 

She opened her eyes to the embalming room of Resurrection Gardens. Through the frosted industrial windows off to the side, Miss Lollipop could see the fading light of sunset. Mr. Pertonelli was leaning over the open coffin, looking smug.

 

“You had such a small turnout for your passing . . . your boss, your brother and your husband were the only ones there. Sad, actually, but I’m sure you’ll have a few visitors to your grave in the next week or so.”

 

“You’re . . . v-vile,” she managed, shivering a little.

Mr. Pertonelli frowned faintly. “The pain of your contempt is so _easily_ wiped away by your money. Speaking of wiping away . . . May I offer you a hankie?” he sneered. 

Miss Lollipop struggled to sit, her eyes blinking. She gripped the edges of the coffin and pulled herself up, glaring at the man who stood by, not offering a hand to help.

 

“There, there . . . you’ll be fine in an hour’s time or so,” Mr. Pertonelli murmured carelessly. “My associates have your new identification ready, along with an airline ticket to Boston. All’s well that ends well . . . if you have the money.”

 

“More money?” Miss Lollipop asked with the right tone of desperation in her voice.

The funeral director nodded. “Yes, and we need your authorization for that. Since the banks are closed, you’ll need to stay as my . . . guest this evening. Then in the morning, we’ll have the matter of added expenses all straightened out.”

 

“I’ve already paid for my new identification,” she pointed out through gritted teeth.

Mr. Pertonelli shrugged. “The costs have gone up. So let me escort you to your room and we’ll just wait for tomorrow.”

 

Miss Lollipop nodded tightly. She climbed out of the coffin and let the man lead her through the adjoining doorway, tottering along as the drug slowly wore off. When she reached the room she sank on the small cot there, listening to the click of the lock as chuckling, Pertonelli closed the door behind her.

 

Nearly an hour went by; she was getting very good at waiting.

 

Miss Lollipop went to the sink, and washed her hands, then looked around the room carefully. A cot, a sink, a closet with a few empty wooden hangers in it. The walls were bare, except for a few nails here and there. Slowly a smile crossed her face.

 

Ten minutes later, she carefully tapped out the last hinge pin on the door, using a nail and a section of pipe from under the sink. The hinge pin fell out with a soft clatter, and she picked it up. One of the hangers acted as a wedge under the door frame and she tugged with success, dislodging the door open from the hinge side.

 

She stepped out into the mortuary workroom. It was dark, but she remembered the layout, and made for the wall-mounted phone. Dialing a number from memory, Miss Lollipop smiled when the first ring barely began, to be followed up by a familiar and worried voice.

 

“Heather?”

 

“It’s me. We need to go to plan B, my love.”

 

“Already there,” came his relieved growl.

 

“Wonderful. I’ll be at the back door.”

 

*** *** ***

 

SATURDAY MORNING

 

The fire at the Resurrection Garden Mortuary wasn’t the lead story for the morning news in Las Vegas, but it was impressive enough for several TV stations to send camera crews. The footage showing the four-alarm blaze that firefighters attempted control played repeatedly throughout the morning, with commentary from the anchors about the hazardous chemicals used in embalming being blamed for the disaster.

 

The owner and operator of Resurrection Gardens had been reported missing, and the fire chief was quoted as saying it was possible that his body might be recovered from the site, but only once the fire was contained.

 

On the sofa of the lounge, Licorice and Jaw Breaker watched with professional interest, each of them looking thoughtful.

 

“It’s a terrible thing when people don’t follow safe storage protocols for chemicals,” Jaw Breaker muttered, “A real shame.”

 

“A formula for disaster,” Licorice agreed. “Storing volatile material close to flammable cleaners, solvents and smocks. And so much fuel . . . all those acetate lined coffins and varnished caskets. Once a blaze gets started in a place like that, the acceleration is . . . exponential.”

 

Jaw Breaker shrugged. “At least the crematorium might come through, being fireproof and all.”

 

“Maybe—if they rebuild it in a year or two.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Down one level below the lounge, in a plain cell fronted with bulletproof glass, Mr. Pertonelli lay still on a cold metal table.

 

He could hear everything.

 

“Hello, Pertonelli. I’m sure you’re wondering what the fuck is going on, but then again, you might appreciate a first-hand taste of what your formula feels like. It’s me, Mr. Morris. Not my _real_ name of course, but you don’t need to worry about that.”

 

“What you should be worrying about is what’s going to happen to a slimy puffed-up hyena turd like yourself. I mean think about it—you’re drugged and helpless, in the hands of a guy whose significant other you jacked off all over.”

 

Sugar Daddy glared down at the body on the table, taking a moment to let his rage ebb slightly before continuing. He spoke again, striving to keep his voice mild.

 

“I would _love_ to kill you, frankly, but I’ve been ordered not to. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you get away with your molesting habits though. So I’ve wired up your little willy and marble sack to this electroshock regulator. This sex soundtrack will complete the training, you know? Get a chubby, get a serious jolt. Lie still, get a jolt. In fact, think about any sex at all and . . . it’s pretty much _over_ for you, Pertonelli. For the next eight hours you’re going to lie here never knowing when the next agonizing charge will be, wishing you could hack your own junk off.”

 

“Then we’ll let you go home and patch up your charred prick and nuts, but we’ll be keeping an eye on you. And at some point in the future—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe in a few months—we’re going to kidnap you, bring you back and give you a little refresher.”

 

Sugar Daddy leaned down, letting his breath brush the other man’s face. “Just between you and me, I think you need to leave Vegas. I _ever_ see you again you sorry-assed motherfucker, I’m upping the voltage waaay past eleven, got that?”

 

*** *** ***

 

SATURDAY NOON

 

Sara pushed the papers across the table towards Miss Lollipop, past the blue elephant teapot as she spoke. “Names, amounts, dates as well as the formula for the curare blend. I think we ought to let somebody in the State department handle the ID data base corruption myself. I know it might compromise ours, but—”

 

“—It’s a very good suggestion, Sara dear, yes.” Miss Lollipop murmured quietly. She looked over and smiled, but her gaze was distracted, and she held her cup a little too tightly.

 

Sara felt a pang of pain. Carefully, quietly she spoke again quietly. “Thank you.”

 

Miss Lollipop blinked a little. Sara continued. “I saw the photos . . . you _knew_ , didn’t you? That’s why you insisted on doing this one yourself.”

 

“. . . Yes,” came the slow reply. “When I’d interviewed Theresa she told me what happened . . . what to expect. I didn’t feel it was right to ask anyone _else_ to go through that.”

 

For a long moment neither woman spoke. Sara looked again at Miss Lollipop, and cleared her throat. “I guess . . . I’d better get going.”

 

“Yes. Vacation time for you, isn’t it? Paris, I believe?” Miss Lollipop murmured absently. She was clutching her cup tightly again, Sara noted sadly.

 

Rising to leave, Sara said her goodbye. She passed through the door and saw Sugar Daddy coming towards her, his eyes locking onto hers. Sara sighed softly. “Not good.”

 

“I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry—she’s going to be fine,” he assured her in a low voice. “She’s a tough, classy lady—sort of like you.”

 

At that Sara smiled, and lightly hugged him.

 

***

 

Sugar Daddy slipped into the terrace and looked at Miss Lollipop. She blinked up at him, startled at his arrival. “Jim.”

 

“Heather,” he murmured, crossing to reach her at the table. She tried to smile at him, but it was more of a rictus, and her fingers slipped as she picked up the teapot. It tumbled over the edge of the table and fell, shattering on the terrace with a loud crack, pieces flying everywhere. Startled, both of them looked down at the mess of ceramic and tea.

 

“Ohhhhh . . .” Miss Lollipop gasped in a hurt tone. “I’ve never . . .” she looked up at Brass, tears welling in her eyes. “Never broken one before. Ever. And it was the elephant . . .”

 

“Shhhhhh—" Sugar Daddy squatted down next to her, pulling her chair from the table until her legs were in front of him. She splayed her hands across her thighs protectively, and the hurt and pain in her eyes flashed out.

 

“No . . . I’m not . . . _clean_ , yet,” came her whispered little sob.

 

“Heather—” Sugar Daddy bent his head and reverently kissed her skirt, the heat of his lips seeping through the cloth. “Let me . . . make it better—”

 

He kept kissing her thighs, and after the third one, her hands hesitantly reached to stroke his hair, smoothing the brushy feel of it, caressing his skull gently. Sugar Daddy kept kissing her skirt until he reached her waist, then lifted his face to her, his expression patient and full of love.

 

Miss Lollipop burst into tears and pulled him to her, holding him tightly in the warm still light of another bright Las Vegas day.

 

(Coming next: Candy Shop: Off the Clock)

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance between Mr. Pertonelli and a certain casket salesman from the movie _The Loved One_ was intentional.
> 
> This went darker than I intended but I felt it was important to show that Heather was willing to take on a mission herself; one with emotional consequences.


End file.
